


Divine

by ObsidianPen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Dark, F/M, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Greek and Roman Mythology - Freeform, Hades!Voldemort, Harrymort - Freeform, Kidnapping, M/M, Persephone!Harry, Possessive Behavior, Rape/Non-con Elements, So Dark, but also romantic, tomarry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 04:36:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9304541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsidianPen/pseuds/ObsidianPen
Summary: Voldemort, the God of the Underworld and Master of the Dead, most feared of all the Gods by the mortals of the world...was lonely. God AU, Greek mythology inspired. Hades!Voldemort, Persephone!Harry. Dark, explicit, and horrifically romantic.





	1. The Boy Who Ran

**Author's Note:**

> This...will get dark.
> 
> There will be violence, drama, sex, and all sorts of terribly sinful behavior. If you're here, you're diving headfirst into a mythological, horrific romance. If you know the story of Persephone and Hades, you might have a bit of a clue as to what you're in for. If you don't...maybe check that out, first.
> 
> AND YES, I know Persephone is a female in the actual story. I just...don't care. Harry's a male in this story. Other artistic liberties will be taken as needed, too. I do not own Harry Potter, nor anything relating to Greek mythology...though that would be pretty boss, wouldn't it?
> 
> This story is dedicated to the lovely Mors. XXXOOO

 

_(Hades/Voldemort Aesthetic by trippingonflatsurfaces)_

* * *

 

 

Voldemort was… _lonely._

Such a pathetic statement, and it was seemingly contradictory. The God of the Underworld was surrounded by souls. Cold souls, corrupt souls, innocent souls. Thousands upon thousands of souls. And yet, no matter how many he collected, no matter how many lives he claimed to join him in the eternity of his kingdom…

" _Massster…?"_

Voldemort was snapped out of his abysmal reverie by the sound of a soft, sibilant hiss. His precious pet uncoiled herself at his feet, concern in each of her six, crimson eyes.

Nagini was the most terrifying guard that any poor soul—dead or otherwise, but usually the former—had ever seen. A massive serpent with three heads, she was, in Voldemort's mind, a great and terrible beauty. Her scales shone like polished emeralds, her eyes glowed like living rubies…

And yet, not even her exquisite presence could extinguish this sense of crushing… _loneliness._

Voldemort stroked one of her heads in response to her awareness, leaning back further on his throne and repressing a sigh. His serpent, while accepting the attention on one of her necks and shifting so that he could reach her more easily, was not fooled. _"You are unhappy,"_ she hissed with her second head, the most perceptive of the three. _"Shall I bring you a human and make him run for you?"_ she offered with her third, her long, forked tongue flickering hopefully.

"No, no… I am not in the mood for screaming and torment, this evening…"

All three of Nagini's heads fixed him with quizzical looks. _"But massster is alwaysss in the mood for ssscreams…"_

Voldemort didn't respond, only continued to stroke her neck. He stared blankly down at his kingdom, only vaguely interested in the lifeless souls which wandered, eternally despairing, in his pit of darkness…

Usually, the sight made him happy.

"Perhaps a trip above ground is in order," he murmured, contemplative. "I have not walked the earth in a very long time. Perhaps some sunlight would shake me from this strange…"

He paused, unwilling to utter the honest word out loud to even his most loyal, precious beast.

_Depression._

Voldemort rose to his feet. His cold and lifeless subjects all turned at his divine presence and looked at him with wide, vacant eyes. "Keep a vigilant watch in my absence, Nagini," he commanded, though it was really an unnecessary instruction. His serpent always did her job flawlessly. Nagini nuzzled against her master's side with two of her heads in her usual gesture of departure, but the third head had already turned its attention to the imprisoned dead.

Voldemort hadn't even crossed the length of the throne room before he could hear the tormented screams of the damned, fleeing from Nagini's twisted chase. For the first time in millennia, the sound did not warm his heart.

* * *

The God of the Underworld fluidly assumed his mortal form.

His pale, cool skin became warm and flushed, his scarlet eyes darkened into something far less sinister. By the time he had stepped onto the earth, he appeared to any who may look upon him as a harmless human.

Voldemort held his arms out wide on either side of him, basking in the heat of the sun's golden rays. It was early summer, he could sense it immediately. It was written in the cerulean hue of the sky, he heard it in the cheerful songs of the birds. The earth was in full bloom, flowering and so full of life. The very antithesis of the Underworld where he ruled.

Voldemort walked slowly through the plain in which he found himself. It was a field of lilies, bright and brilliantly white. They flourished alongside a narrow river which flowed to the east, water which reflected the sun's light like a liquid prism. He examined it, noting how very different this free-flowing river was from the still, dreary body of water which surrounded the entirety of his kingdom.

Life, he thought tragically, was beauty. And there was so little of it in his world.

Voldemort continued on, wandering in no particular direction as he let his fingers graze the flowers at his sides. He briefly considered going to visit one of his brothers, to either travel towards the sea or seek higher ground. The moment the notion occurred to him, he dismissed it. The thought of their company, with their raucous, obnoxious behavior, had him scowling already.

The ways in which his siblings handled themselves was atrocious, to say the least. They were always involved in some sort of drama, nearly always driven by lust and the inability to control themselves.

How many children did they have, now, that were born out of wedlock? How many times had they invoked their wraths of their furious wives, afterwards? Why, for love of all that was holy, had they gotten married in the first place?

Voldemort, personally, despised the very thought of it. To willfully tether yourself to another individual out of love, only to then go and renounce them and that love through infidelity.

Well, in all truthfulness, he found the idea of _love_ horrendous all on its own.

Oh, he'd been told about how wonderful it was, more times than he ever could have wanted. Voldemort had heard firsthand from the other Gods and Goddesses what a breathtaking experience it was, to fall in love at first sight, to just know. He'd dealt with far too many mortal souls who, even in their deaths, remained stricken from a blow by the God of Love's arrow.

The God of Love, the God of the Sea, the God of the Heavens…

They had many names, the Gods, but the titles remained the same. They had Greek names, Roman names… _Mortal_ names, for when they assumed roles on the Earth and wished to disguise themselves. They were known throughout the world as many things, but the God of the Underworld alone had crafted a title which invoked such fear that it was rarely spoken by men, for fear that it would invoke his wrath. Voldemort smirked at the thought. It always pleased him to know that his name held such power, that he could strike such overwhelming fear into the mortals so easily.

Fear which was deserved, most certainly. Voldemort, as the God of the Dead, would one day decide the fate of all of them. No living being escaped his grasp forever…

He was Death. He was Hades and he was Pluto. He was _Voldemort._

But at the moment…he was Tom.

His mortal façade was a pleasant one, even he did prefer his eyes to sing of bloodshed and malevolence. Voldemort wondered vaguely if any of the other Gods or Goddesses would be walking the earth on this day, donning their mortal skins. Even in their human forms, other Immortals could always recognize each other. To a human, Voldemort would appear only as Tom, an innocent, handsome man. But to another God, the truth would be visible, his power radiating around him like a halo of dark power. The instant sign of something that is more than a man.

He hoped he did not encounter any of his familiars, today. Voldemort was enjoying the solitude as he strolled through the field, admiring the beauty of the flowers. He did feel somewhat assured, knowing that he would not, at least, come across either of his brothers. The God of the Heavens tended to remain there, whilst the God of the Sea chose to spend his time in the depths of his own, watery home.

Just as he, Voldemort, nearly always stayed underground. He _liked_ darkness. He _enjoyed_ the isolation.

… _Usually._

It was _this_ , he realized, as he paused in his walking, _this_ which he was craving. Light and life. He frowned, fingers curling into fists in frustration. Why on earth would he ever crave such things? He had never desired them before.

Surely, it was just a phase, and this longing would soon pass. After a just a short amount of time basking in the sunlight, Voldemort was certain that it would dissipate, and he would be craving the darkness and lifelessness of the Underworld once more.

Voldemort had just convinced himself of this when he saw him. A young person, on the other side of the field.

He was gathering flowers.

He wasn't a mortal, Voldemort could tell at once. A soft luminescence radiated around his body, like celestial starlight. It was another immortal being, but no one whom Voldemort had ever encountered before. He was very lithe, with delicate features that were much softer than most males. His hair was as black as the darkest corners of hell, and when he glanced up, Voldemort was met with emerald eyes that shone more brightly than his precious Nagini's scales.

The boy shrouded in heavenly light froze when they made eye contact, stunned at the presence of such a dark, obviously immortal, man in this field. His lips parted in shock, and for a long moment he seemed unable to do anything but stand there, astounded and afraid.

Voldemort, too, remained still… but the strange sensation of _want_ coiled in his chest, like a serpent who had caught the scent of desirous prey, and was preparing to strike.

Without even realizing he was doing it, Voldemort took a step towards him. It was like a magnetic pull he could not ignore.

The boy jumped at the action. He dropped the lilies in his hands and fled, moving with the grace and agility that only a God could possess. White petals danced in his absence, floating on the wind in flurry of broken flowers.

Voldemort barely repressed the crushing desire to _chase_ , to _hunt_. He caught one of the petals and held it between his long, pale fingers.

What was happening to him? What was this, this burning, all-consuming… _hunger?_

Nearly as he had the question in his mind, he realized the truth.

Lust, lust, lust. He had seen that boy and was now filled with _lust._

The God of the Underworld took in a shuddering breath, lamenting that he was not unsusceptible to the very same craving that he so often judged his brothers harshly for.

It didn't matter. Voldemort clenched his fists, crushing the petal in his hand. Lust was just corporal desire; he would find the boy and slay it so that he could return to his kingdom, cold and detached once more.

He hunted.

He did not find.

The Immortal boy with the black hair and green eyes remained elusive. Voldemort cursed his flight, cursed _himself_ for not having given chase right away. What sort of Immortal being was this boy, that he was able to hide from the God of the Underworld? _Who_ had sired this impossible, beautiful young God?

Voldemort swore, knowing that there was only one way to find out with certainty who this mysterious Immortal was. He turned and looked towards the sky, already hating what he knew was to come.

He was going to need to seek out his brother, after all.


	2. Instantaneous Love

The home of the Gods was fascinating.

A glorious castle which sat atop a mountain, above the earthly realm where only Immortals could venture. As with all eternal legends, the place had many names—Mount Olympus, Oros Olympos, Mytikas, Pantheon—but no matter what it was called, the majesty of the palace was irrefutable.

Voldemort had not ascended into this paradise in a very long time. He felt a rush of wistful reminiscence as he entered into the picturesque land of the clouds and sun, entranced by the sight of such a beautiful castle that, even now, even after all these years, felt like home.

He wondered, not for the first time, how different he may have been if _he_ were the one to rule the skies. If it had been he, rather than his brother, who had drawn the lot which decided who would be the monarch of the heavens…

Voldemort forced such pointless thoughts away. He was the King of the Damned, and it was a position he had come to cherish. He was just feeling…uncharacteristically off.

An issue he would solve, soon.

Voldemort made his way to the entrance of the castle where the tall, grandiose doors opened before him, recognizing his familiar and divine presence. He was about to head straight to the throne room, but he was met in the entryway by a very unwelcome entity.

The Messenger God appeared equally unhappy upon coming face to face with Voldemort. "H…Hades?" he gaped, shifting on his winged feet nervously. Voldemort had always thought he was one of the least impressive immortals—short, twitchy, and extremely flighty. He supposed it suited an envoi who needed to be quick, but he still found something about him spineless.

"I prefer my more recently acquired title," Voldemort drawled.

Hermes's eye narrowed distastefully. "Voldemort, is it, now? Or should I say _Tom_ , considering…?"

Voldemort was on the brink of being furious before he realized his mistake—he was still donning his mortal disguise, having forgotten to shed it before entering into this sacred place.

"Only if that means I get to call you Peter," Voldemort said, grinning. "I always thought humanity looked far better on you than your immortal form."

Hermes flinched; it was a terrible insult to say such a thing and they both knew it. "What are you doing here?" he snapped. "You never come to Olympus."

"I am here to see my brother… Not that it is any of your concern."

"Well, you've wasted your time, then," Hermes sneered. "Zeus isn't here."

"He's _not?_ "

"No. He's on Earth, has been a lot, recently; he's taken a shine to being a stag for some reason these days, I've no idea why… Though last time I saw him he was a man. Probably in a brothel or something."

Voldemort scowled, unsurprised. Though a part of him longed to walk the castle halls again, he had more pressing desires to rid himself of than nostalgia. "Fine. If he returns before I find him, then—"

"Holy hell, is that _you_ , Hades?"

A high, feminine voice caused both Voldemort and Hermes to turn.

A Goddess of extreme and unfathomable beauty was rushing towards them, her eyes wide with surprise when she spotted the God of the Underworld at the front gates. She had skin that dazzled like diamonds, and long, pristinely white hair that would make freshly fallen snow look dull.

"Aphrodite," Voldemort greeted emotionlessly when she approached, her smile so radiant that it was blinding.

"Hades!" She glanced quickly down at his body, her eyes glittering spiritedly. "Oh, are we playing _mortals?_ Are you going down to Earth to cause trouble—may _I_ come?"

She shifted into her human form effortlessly, though there was little different. Aphrodite had always been one of the vainest Immortals—the body of the woman which she donned could hardly pass as human at all, she retained so much of her ethereal beauty.

"No," Voldemort snarled.

She stuck her lower lip out, pouting. "Why not? I can hardly pass up the opportunity to wreak havoc with _you!_ Just imagine what we could accomplish together!" She draped an arm around his shoulder, smirking. "The illustrious _Tom_ and _Fleur_ ; why, we'd have half the mortal population eating out of our palms in moments! Don't you think so, Hermes _?_ Tell me we don't make the perfect picture of seduction!" She leaned into Voldemort's chest, posing and winking. "You could come, too! Play Peter, we'll have such fun!"

"No," Voldemort repeated, peeling Aphrodite from his side in annoyance. "I did not come here to recruit companions for debauchery, nor am I going to Earth to cause pointless mayhem."

Aphrodite tossed her now blonde hair over her shoulder. "Well, what are you doing, then?" she huffed. "To what do we owe the rare _blessing_ of your presence, _Voldemort_?"

"I was merely looking to seek an audience with my brother… Not that it is any of your concern," he seethed, irritated that he had needed to say this twice, now.

Aphrodite stared at his face in such a way that Voldemort felt highly uncomfortable. Her cerulean gaze flickered from one of his eyes to the other, like she was searching his very soul. "Oh…my…heavens," she breathed suddenly, her hands flying to her chest.

"You are in _love_."

"Ha!" Hermes instantly laughed at the ridiculous statement. "Ha!" he shouted again, when Voldemort glowered at him.

"I am not in _love_ ," Voldemort spat, ignoring him and glowering at Aphrodite.

"Yes, you are," she said. "I can tell, I can see it in your eyes, Hades. I am the Goddess of Love, I know. I _know._ "

She then squealed, jumping up and down and making Voldemort wince. "Oh, how _exciting_! How perfectly _wonderful_! Tell me, who is the unfortunate maiden?"

Voldemort recoiled away from her reaching hands like they might burn him. "I am not in love with anyone!" he snarled. "It is just a mere matter of lust, if you _must_ know."

"Wrong, so very wrong," Fleur purred, completely unperturbed by his rage and grabbing his hands, anyway. "You've fallen, helplessly so. Love at first sight, the most powerful and debilitating kind. I can see it in your eyes. It's all right; for someone as old and powerful as you are, it must be a very confusing feeling. But no, Hades. Lust is only a fraction of what's happened to you. You are _in love_."

"Lies," Voldemort hissed, feeling both furious and strangely vulnerable.

" _Truths_ ," she sighed in response. "Oh, instantaneous love. Such a beautiful, powerful, and rare thing… I almost envy you… Except I don't, because it's perfectly horrifying. I've experienced enough men harboring such affections for me, after all. It never did end well for them."

"It is not _love_ , it is only lust," Voldemort repeated adamantly. "And I plan to remedy it as soon as I can."

Fleur balked at him. "What, by force?" When Voldemort didn't respond, her hands settled on her hips, incredulous. "What is it with you males? You cannot force and rape your way through _love!_ "

"Can't I?" Voldemort drawled, bored. "That is what every other God does around here."

" _Ergh!"_ Fleur looked repulsed. "No! Hades, mark my words—if you simply take and force this poor creature into your bed, it will not end well!"

Hermes laughed under his breath. " _Silence, pest_ ," Voldemort hissed murderously, towering over him and fixing him with a burning glare. He could feel the illusion of his mortal eyes slipping, revealing irises of hellfire and blood. Hermes backed away, cowering in an instant. _Spineless._

"So who is it?" Fleur was suddenly bright and curious once more, not deterred at all by his furious outburst towards Hermes. "You must tell me!"

"I do not need to tell you anything at all," Voldemort responded, looking back to her.

"Oh, gods," she said, eyes shining in delight at the possible scandal. "…Is it a _mortal_?"

"No," Voldemort snapped at once. "It is _not_ a mortal."

…Wouldn't that have made things easier, though? Voldemort pondered that. Had it been a mere mortal he had become so… _fascinated_ by, there would have been no chance at escape.

All humans became Voldemort's, in the end.

Yet that exquisite creature had been an Immortal being; even in his human form, there was no doubt about that. Voldemort had seen his mesmerizing aura, like a cloud of celestial light clinging to his tanned, mortal skin.

He was a God, and so death itself would never claim him…

"Who is it, then?"

Aphrodite's eagerness was grating on his nerves. "I do not know. That is _why_ I was seeking an audience with Zeus," he seethed. "Seeing as he is not here, I am going to go seek him out on Earth. _Do not follow me._ "

"You would rather seek _his_ council over mine!?"

Voldemort took one look at her simpering, affronted face, suppressing the desire to laugh. "Obviously," he said. "I do not need the advice of the Goddess of Love, because this is not an issue of love. Regardless, I do not seek council at all. Just an identity. Goodbye, Aphrodite. Pest."

He turned and left, descending back down to the mortal realm, away from the heavens and the majesty of the castle. He could hear Aphrodite's offended shriek echoing above him, completely disgusted.

Somehow, the God of the Underworld couldn't be bothered to care.

* * *

Finding Zeus was simple.

It seemed that old habits truly did run deep, even after centuries, and Voldemort found his brother in one of the same whorehouses he had always frequented when he walked the earth. At least he wasn't prancing around as a stag, Voldemort thought with disgust. That would have made this conversation much more cumbersome.

This particular brothel was one of the nicest in what the mortals called Rome. Beautiful women—and even some men—could be found here, and those with enough gold could have nearly any request they desired fulfilled. It was a house of sin and wickedness… The perfect playground for Gods plagued by boredom.

Voldemort could sense his divine aura in one of the private rooms in the back. He quickly cast the mortals who worked there into a stupor, moving past them and heading towards where he knew a God must be. Without so much as a warning, Voldemort pushed the heavy curtain aside. Perhaps he would even interrupt something interesting.

"Hello, brother."

Fortunately, Voldemort missed the action. Though the air hung heavy with the aroma of sex and sweat, he found Zeus reclining lazily on plush cushion, three women draped around him and petting his hair, rubbing his shoulders, and filling his wine glass. His godly aura, so powerfully bright, swathed his skin like a vibrant halo.

The whores shrieked in surprise at the intrusion. Voldemort smiled thinly at them—three young women, each with long, red hair and pale skin. Predictable. "Do you mind, ladies? I require a private audience with this...gentleman."

They did not need to be told twice. The mortals obeyed his enchanted command at once, fleeing from the room and leaving Voldemort alone with his naked, reprehensible brother.

Zeus looked enraged for only a moment before his face broke out into a deeply amused grin. He laughed boisterously. "Why, look who it is!" he exclaimed, standing and looking completely unbothered by the fact that Voldemort had just found him in a whorehouse. He grabbed a robe and tossed it carelessly around his shoulders. "Either I am extremely drunk, or nowhere near drunk enough!"

"The latter!" A muffled voice from the next room over made Voldemort's eye twitch. _Hell,_ Zeus wasn't alone.

The presence of another Immortal was the last thing Voldemort wanted to deal with. But then he was bursting into the room, a decanter full of wine in one hand and a goblet in the other. Voldemort cursed himself for not having noticed his energy before; but then again, it was practically eclipsed by the power of Zeus's almighty strength. He scowled.

"Dionysus," Voldemort said through clenched teeth.

The God of Wine and Fertility looked, as usual, drunk and merry. He made a handsome mortal, one with silver eyes and dark, wavy hair. He grinned happily when he saw Voldemort, like his presence in a whorehouse was the funniest thing in the world to him. Dionysus was, at the very least, wearing pants.

"Now, now," Zeus said chidingly. "We're on Earth, _Tom_. You'd do well to call us by our mortal names."

Voldemort's eyes flashed, a momentary lapse of crimson bleeding through. "Of course… My deepest apologies, _Sirius_ … Tell me, _James_ , do you often take your children whoring?"

Zeus's eyes widened, looking falsely offended. "What? No, of course not!" A pause. "…Just this one!"

The two laughed raucously. Dionysus refilled his cup and took a long drink. "Have some wine with us, Tom!" he shouted, offering him a glass of his own.

"No, thank you," Voldemort said. He looked back to Zeus, hoping to get this over with as soon as possible. "I came only to ask…"

Voldemort's voice trailed off as the realization struck him.

_How_ had he not noticed it before?

He saw it, now. It was in his stature, in his tousled mess of black hair. The resemblance in their mortal bodies was uncanny, now that he bothered to look for it. Voldemort felt extremely idiotic for not having realized it at once.

In fact, the only major discrepancy was in the eyes. The boys' eyes had been green, vivacious like polished gemstones. Gorgeous, really; the loveliest tint of emerald that he had ever seen. Exquisite.

…He had been really caught up on his eyes.

_Oh, hell,_ Voldemort thought with a crushing despair.

He _was_ in love.

Zeus noticed his thunderstruck expression and frowned. "What? That shocked to see me, Tom?"

But Voldemort hardly heard him. "Damn it all," he swore, desolate.

"He's _yours._ "


	3. Night

Zeus and Dionysus shared a confused glance at Voldemort's obvious turmoil. Voldemort ran a hand through his hair, the feeling of anguish intensifying exponentially.

The conversation he'd intended on having had just changed entirely. He would no longer be inquiring about the identity of just any mysterious Immortal, but one which was clearly a son of Zeus himself.

The fact that this made Voldemort his uncle, in human terms, was not what was so distressing. Being 'related' meant exactly nothing in the world of the Gods; in fact, the closer any two immortal individuals were, the stronger their offspring tended to be. Some of the most powerful deities were the children of brothers and sisters; Gods and Goddesses had always interbred and married. There were few true Immortals in the first place, after all.

If one wanted to produce a _pureblooded_ Immortal, the options were very limited.

"What's troubling you, Tom?" Zeus sat on the edge of the unmade bed on which he had just defiled a throng of women. He motioned for Voldemort to sit across from him on vacant armchair, and slowly, numbly, Voldemort did. "It must be something fascinating, if you've bothered to seek me out. Problems in the Underworld?"

"Hardly," Voldemort drawled. Dionysus offered him another glass of wine, and this time, Voldemort accepted. He took a long sip before asking, in a hedged tone, "James… How many children do you have?"

Zeus blinked in surprise at the strange question. "One loses track," he said after a moment, grinning and picking up his own glass. Dionysus laughed and sat at his side. "Why?"

"I believe I encountered a son of yours I had not been previously aware of earlier today. He was in his mortal form," Voldemort explained. "I was trying to figure out who it may be."

"Oh?" Zeus leaned forward, interested. "What did he look like?"

"Very much like you," Voldemort admitted. "Except the eyes… His eyes were green."

Zeus's lightly inquisitive expression crumbled. Dionysus hummed in understanding; clearly this trait alone made it obvious whom Voldemort was inquiring about.

"Kouros," Zeus said quietly.

"He prefers his mortal name," Dionysus commented.

Zeus flashed him an annoyed look. "What?" Dionysus said. "I know him decently well. He stays in his human form on Earth pretty much all the time, and he likes going by his mortal name… Harry."

"Why do you ask?" Zeus snapped, turning his attention back to Voldemort. "Did something happen when you saw him?"

Voldemort's muscles tensed. Something extremely monumental _had_ happened in that off-chance encounter, something which was a rare occurrence in general, let alone to happen to the Lord of Darkness and Death.

_Love at first sight._

Voldemort decided not to drag this horrid conversation out any longer than he needed to. "I want him," he said simply.

Dionysus choked on his wine. Zeus's eyes widened in shock, and for a time he simply stared at him, like maybe he had misheard his brother, King of the Damned, and was waiting for another explanation. When he was offered none, Zeus laughed.

"You want…my _son?_ " he balked. Voldemort nodded. "But you didn't even know his name until just now!"

"So? I saw him and have decided I want him. Other unions have happened for less."

"I am just... surprised, is all," Zeus said, baffled. "I had no idea you were even interested in things such as romance, nor was I aware of your…inclinations."

It took Voldemort a long moment to realize exactly what Zeus meant by that. "…Because he is a male?"

"Well, yes." Zeus's expression shifted from surprised to amused. "I would never have guessed that was your preference."

"I hardly see why that matters," Voldemort said, glaring. "It's a common enough practice with the mortals… As _well_ as the Gods. Remind me again, brother—how did you come to acquire your _cupbearer_?"

Zeus laughed. "Ah, yes, well. He was just too beautiful a mortal to leave on Earth."

"He _is_ rather stunning," Dionysus agreed.

"Touch him and I'll strike you down."

Dionysus froze with his cup to his lips at the sudden ferocity in Zeus's voice. There was a split second where it looked like something very terrible was going to happen, the threat hanging in the air like static electricity—but then Zeus was laughing, and Dionysus exhaled an audible breath of relief before laughing as well.

Voldemort might have rolled his eyes at their behavior were he not above such contrite gestures. "So, you're smitten with Harry," Dionysus said, his face flushed from laughter and wine. "Can't say I blame you. He's quite an attractive young God."

Zeus looked distraught, saying nothing. "Does this trouble you, James?" Voldemort asked icily. "I do not see why it should. I rule one third of the world, any God or Goddess would be honored to be at my side… Even a child of yours."

Dionysus nodded in approval, but Zeus was frowning and looking deeply conflicted. "Tell me I am wrong, if you think so," Voldemort demanded.

"...I do not think you are wrong," he finally admitted softly. "I cannot deny that it would be an agreeable match, considering your position…"

He sighed heavily. Voldemort had a very strong sense of foreboding.

"Then I do not see what the issue is," Voldemort hissed. "If I have your blessing, then I shall seek him out at once."

"The issue is not that I would try and stop you," Zeus said, though he looked like he wanted to, at least to an extent. Voldemort waited patiently for the explanation, the ominous sense of trepidation growing with each passing second.

"The issue… will be with his _mother_."

* * *

The weather was immaculate.

It always was, where the Goddess of the Harvest and Fertility roamed. She inspired warmth with a smile, life with a touch. Flowers blossomed at her feet when she walked barefoot upon the Earth, roses and lilies that decorated the landscape with their brilliant hues.

There was such beauty on this world that she had never harbored any desire to live in the heavens at all. Demeter chose instead to dwell on Earth, usually in her mortal form, with her mortal name…and her son.

_Kouros_ … No, Harry.

He preferred to go by Harry, just as she requested to be referred to as Lily.

Not that it mattered what they were called, here. They dwelled in a part of the world where mortals did not live; an enchanted, forbidden forest where the nymphs, dryads, and naiads roamed freely, unafraid of the humans which might cause them harm.

It was peaceful, here.

Lily smiled, and a gentle breeze swept across the land in response. She caught the scent of her son in the air and went to seek him out. A lock of her crimson hair caught in a branch as she turned.

"Oh! I'm so sorry, Lily!" The offending tree swiftly turned into a girl, and Lily's strands fell from her fingers. She grinned bashfully.

"Hermione," Lily greeted. It was one of the nymphs with whom her son was very close. "It's all right. Have you seen Harry here, recently? I was just looking for him. Night will fall soon."

Hermione nodded. "Yes, He's just over this way, I think, near the lake. Shall I accompany you?"

"Please."

Hermione fell into step at her side, looking up at Demeter adoringly. Demeter took her hand, grinning fondly down at the woodland creature. The Goddess of the Harvest harbored an extreme affection for all magical beings of the forest, and it pleased her that her son preferred their company as well.

The nymph was right. Just moments later, and they came upon a clearing where a lake stretched before them. Her son and a naiad he had befriended—a water nymph named Ron—were relaxing on the shoreline, tossing fruit into the water. They laughed as a tentacle rose from the depths each time, catching the small bits of produce with ease. Its actions seemed irritated, though—probably because it was only being fed fruit when what it really craved was flesh.

But it was a game that Harry and his friends played often—annoy the massive, bloodthirsty sea monster. "Harry," Demeter chided as she approached. "What have I told you about purposefully tempting dangerous beasts?"

Harry and the water nymph both turned, hurriedly shoving the small pile of fruit behind them like that might conceal what they were doing.

"Hello, Lily! Hermione," Ron said boisterously, as though by speaking loudly he may more effectively distract from their trouble-making. "How are you this fine, summer evening?"

"If you keep tempting a carnivore with sweets, it will eventually come for _you_ ," Hermione said shrewdly.

Ron looked unconcerned. "Nah, he's harmless." A tentacle splashed a wave of water towards the shore, effectively drenching both he and Harry in an instant. "…Completely harmless," Ron reiterated, as though that had not just happened.

Then they were all laughing, even Lily. Whenever her son smiled, it melted her heart, and there was nothing in the universe which could keep her angry at him when he laughed.

Lily loved her son more than anything. It was for him that she had remained determined to stay far away from the other Immortals in the castle on Mount Olympus.

The thought of them stirred within her a bitter rage. The male Gods were all such domineering, forceful beings. She had refused Zeus himself, once, and he had tricked her into being with him, anyway. Lily had run from his advances in the form of a serpent that day, hoping to hide from him in the guise of an animal which she knew he despised. It hadn't worked. Zeus had manifested as a snake as well, and effectively taken her, in the end.

He had apologized, afterwards. He had confessed that he was drunk off power at being the God of the Skies, that being denied had driven him mad with frustration and lust. Lily remembered the mournful look in his eyes, the undeniable sight of regret and remorse in his features. Zeus had said that he would do anything that she asked, anything at all, to make it right.

She told him to never seek her out again… and Zeus, having already given his word, was unable to break it.

He left her that day, and she had not seen him since. Zeus would only ever see her again if _she_ sought _him_ out… and Lily had no intentions of ever doing so.

While it was a memory which caused her blood to boil, it was that union with Zeus which had resulted in her one and only child. The fact that they had been serpents at the time did, at least, explain her son's strange ability to speak with snakes, no matter what form he was in.

Harry was a very special child from the moment he was conceived.

…Lily had hoped that it would be a girl.

She had been so sure that she, the Goddess of the Harvest and Fertility, could only produce another female. It had shaken her when she birthed a boy which so resembled his arrogant father.

But the moment she saw that he had green eyes— _her_ eyes—the infant had her heart.

Lily was determined, then, to raise a son which would be nothing at all like the other Gods. She raised him away from the corrupting lifestyle of those terrible beings, instilling in him the importance of love and gentleness, of kindness and peace. And though Harry looked so very much like his father, he was his mother's son.

Harry was the epitome of goodness. Lily would die for him, if she could die at all.

"Child," she sighed, eyeing the fruit and shaking her head. "Come. It is getting late. We must rest when the sun rests."

Harry nodded and stood, always so obedient, so good. "Goodnight then, my friends," he said, smiling at the woodland nymphs. "Until the morning."

Ron dispersed in a flourish of water and Hermione stepped away towards the forest and took root as a tree, taking respite in their nature forms.

Lily and Harry, however, stayed in their human bodies. Only on the solstice did they transcend into their Immortal forms, celebrating the long, summer hours and making the forest sing with their ethereal beauty.

But not today. Harry was walking slowly, and as the silence stretched on, Lily reached for his hand and squeezed it reassuringly. He was frowning, looking lost in thought. It was a troublesome expression she rarely saw on him. "Is something bothering you, son? You seem upset… Did something happen, today?"

He bit his lower lip, something he only did when he was conflicted. "…No," he eventually replied. "No, nothing at all."

He was lying. Lily thought to prod him further, to demand that he tell her—but then he was smiling again, and her trepidation fell away.

"All right," she said, retuning his smile. "Let us adjourn for the evening. Nothing good comes with wandering the forest at night."

* * *

Harry could not sleep.

He and his mother usually rested in the expansive canopies of the trees, cradled in their protective branches underneath blankets of leaves. But not even Lily's presence nor the comforting feeling of the oak's greenery could calm his anxious thoughts tonight.

That man…

No. That _God._

Harry had never seen another God or Goddess beside his mother before, but there was no doubt in his mind that that was what he had seen.

It was not in his body—tall, pale, with black hair and dark eyes—but in the energy which had shrouded him. It was an aura of blackness, powerful and overwhelming, even from so far away. And _cold._ It was a feeling that had chilled him, more frigid than even the lake's coldest depths.

Naturally, he had run.

The reaction had been instinctual. Whoever that God had been, Harry had seen the predatory gleam in his eyes, the same look that wolves had while stalking deer. He had been about to chase, and so Harry had fled.

Fortunately, Harry was very quick. He was blessed with the gifts of speed and agility, and he had always been good at escaping.

Still. The interaction had shaken him on a deep level. Why had that God come into the forest? What was he seeking? There were no mortals here to toy with, and his mother had told him that they were safe here, that no Gods or Goddesses would be interested in coming to a forest where they could not cause mayhem…

Who was he?

Harry turned to glance at his slumbering mother. She looked so peaceful, her hair cascading across her face, the color of rose petals. He could never burden her with this information. She was always so protective of him; and the thought that another Immortal had trespassed here would cause her to panic.

Harry gently pushed the leaves from his body, and sat up. He could not rest. He was full of quivering energy which demanded he _move_ , not sleep.

Harry slipped from the oak tree in silence. He hoped to find some solace in the fields, like maybe the place where he had encountered the God would hold some answers.

* * *

Running was his favorite thing in the world.

When Harry sprinted, he was like a wind spirit, quick and quiet. He practically flew when he dashed at full speed, and there was nothing he enjoyed more than the breeze in his hair and the blur of his beloved forest as he agilely dodged branches and roots.

He made it to the field in record time, not even losing his breath despite his swiftness. The stretch of land which was not covered in trees, but flowers, was still. The daylilies' blooms had fallen, however, leaving the stalks mostly bare. They would bloom more flowers in the morning, Harry knew this, but the sight of them without their blossoms filled him with sadness. He had never explored the forests at night. It was a disquieting vision.

Harry walked slowly through the slumbering field, his mind still racing even though his body had stopped. He paused to stare up at the swollen moon. He wondered if the lunar Goddess was watching, or if she, too, was wandering the Earth this night.

"Do you see me?" he asked quietly of the heavens.

"Yes."

It was not the sky which answered him.

Harry turned, his heart leaping in his throat at the unexpected, low tenor.

There he was.

The God shrouded in darkness was standing behind him, disarmingly close. How long had he been there? Harry had not even heard him arrive; he was as silent as the grasses and roots of the night.

He was in his mortal form again, but his sinister aura was thrumming with power, dark and imposing. Harry resisted the immediate urge to run again. His curiosity alone kept him in place.

The mysterious God smiled, and it was somehow both beautiful and frightening. Harry shivered.

"Who are you?" he asked, pulse racing.

This question made the God's smile widen. "Who am I…" he murmured, amusement lacing every word. Clearly, this was a deity who was used to everyone knowing _exactly_ who he was. He took one step closer to Harry, whose every impulse was telling him to sprint, flee, _escape._ He didn't— _wouldn't_. Not until he knew.

"I am the Ruler of the Underworld…" the God began as he prowled ever closer. The air around him shimmered, his mortal guise slipping away to reveal his true form. He closed his eyes. "I am the King of the Damned, the Master of Darkness… I am Pluto, I am Hades…"

The façade fell away completely. His skin had become as pale as the full moon, his hair darker and shining like an obsidian gemstone. Harry gasped when he opened his eyes, revealing irises of a vibrant, intense red, like fire. Like blood.

"I am Lord Voldemort…and I am _Death._ "


	4. The Chase

_Death._

_Death_ had come to his forest. Harry was breathless for a long time while he processed this, immobilized as he considered what it might mean. He, a God, could not die, and neither could his mother—but the same was not true of the nymphs and dryads he cherished so dearly. The spirits of this place could be killed, the flowers and trees were susceptible to the cold touch of death.

Harry was suddenly filled with the fierce need to _protect,_ to _save_. "Why are you here?" he asked once he'd finally found his voice. "What do you want?"

"You."

To say this reply caught Harry off guard would be an extreme understatement. His jaw fell open, speechless, and Voldemort's lips curled into a smile.

"Your name is Harry… Yes?" he asked, taking one step closer. Harry swallowed thickly and took a step back, keeping the distance between them.

"How did you know that?"

"Tell me, Harry," the God of the Underworld said, ignoring his question. His eyes burned in the moonlight, the most vibrant and unearthly hue. "Are you afraid of me?"

"No," Harry snapped at once, though this couldn't have been further from the truth. He jutted his chin forward and clenched his fists at his sides. "I'm not afraid of anyone."

"Such _lies_ , Harry…" Voldemort's smile widened sardonically. "But that's good; you _should_ be afraid of me. I'm dangerous. Especially when I want something."

He took another step closer. Harry took another step back. "You want me," he said, his heart racing ever faster. "What does that mean? You can't kill me… So what is it that you want of me?"

Voldemort's expression became pensive, scarlet eyes darting across Harry's features. It was a calculating look that quickly transitioned into the most gleeful, vindictive grin yet. "You are so innocent," he said. "So… _pure_."

"Wh-what?" Harry's face burned at the strange statement, unsure of what he meant.

Voldemort laughed. "I wonder what your Immortal form is like," he murmured, tilting his head to one side. "Considering your parents, I imagine that that it is something… _marvelous._ "

"You know my parents?" Harry asked. He noticed the way that Voldemort was slowly and discreetly leaning forward, like a wolf preparing to strike. "B-both of them?"

"Oh, yes," Voldemort replied. "I very much do."

His powerful aura was darkening. Harry didn't say anything, just watched carefully to see what Voldemort would do. His eyes were smoldering, his posture just slightly inclined. Harry's pulse was racing, but he remained still.

"…I want to take you with me," Voldemort eventually said. "I want a note of something _pure_ in the unending song of desolation that is my kingdom, a ray of light in my otherwise black world of shadows. I want it to be _you_." His voice lowered when he spoke next, making it so that Harry needed to lean forward to properly hear him. "You will be royalty, Harry. The consort of Lord Voldemort, an eternal sovereign to the damned. _Mine_."

Harry stared, transfixed for a moment by that predatory gaze. "You… You want me to go to the Underworld with _you_ … To be a consort to _you_... And stay? _Forever?_ "

Voldemort nodded. Harry's mind reeled, recalling what little he knew of Hades and the third of the world which he ruled. His mother had told him that it was everything that the earth was not: dark, despairing, full of sorrow and lost, hopeless souls.

' _That is why we must cherish and protect all living things in our forest, Harry, while they live… These creatures are ephemeral, their time in the sunlight is fleeting… Someday, they shall all be damned to the darkness of the Underworld… But not us, my son._

_...Never us.'_

"No," Harry finally answered. His fear was eclipsed by the sheer outrageousness of what was not even a _request_ , but a _demand_. "I love the earth, I thrive in sunlight. I don't want to exist in some world of lifelessness forever."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed. "My kingdom may be where expired souls come to dwell, but it is anything but lifeless. There is beauty in the darkness, Harry. I will show you."

"Sorry," Harry said, shaking his head. "I'm not interested in going anywhere with you."

"I was not asking."

Voldemort's voice had become dangerously soft. Harry wasn't sure why, but rather than terrify him, the quiet threat made him laugh. "What are you going to do about it? Drag me down there with you, take me against my will?"

Voldemort didn't answer, but his eyes gleamed with obvious intent. Harry smirked. "As if you could. You tried to catch me once before, and you failed. I am far too swift for you." He put his arms out on either side of him, casually gesturing towards the woods. "This is _my_ forest. I know every tree and every shrub, every creature and every beast. I know the flowers by name. You could _never_ catch me, here."

"Is that a challenge?"

Voldemort's tone was high and cold, but Harry didn't let it show that it affected him. He refused to display weakness to an unwanted stranger, to someone who entered into his home and thought he could just rip him away… no matter _how_ powerful they might be.

Besides, Harry knew that he was right.

"Yes," he said, shrugging. Provoking. "I suppose it is."

A long stretch of silence followed this statement. Harry and Voldemort stood there in the night, two perfectly still figures illuminated by the soft glow of the moon in a field of sleeping flowers. Harry's muscles were tense, his heart pounding. His eyes were locked onto Voldemort's, which were, in turn, locked onto his—earthly green and hellfire red.

The wind blew.

Voldemort lunged.

It was an impressive strike, but Harry was more than prepared. He deftly jumped aside, moving with the graceful lope of a woodland deer.

The chase began.

Maybe he should have been more terrified, as he tore across the empty field and into the forest, but Harry couldn't suppress a grin. There was something absolutely _thrilling_ about being chased. He was sure he would have felt differently, were he not positive that he was untouchable.

But he was.

Whenever it appeared that Voldemort was gaining on him, the trees would respond by stretching their branches and blocking his path. When Harry thought that the Dark Lord might catch him by driving him towards a river, the water parted so that Harry could pass, only to turn into turbulence in the face of Hades. When the God of the Underworld came forth from the shadows in an attempt to catch Harry through cunning and trickery—one which otherwise would have succeeded—the roots of plants broke free from the earth, twisting around the Dark Lord's ankles and holding him long enough for Harry to escape once more, laughing as he went.

Harry was too quick, too agile… and Lord Voldemort could not ensnare him.

His arrogance was nearly his undoing, when the morning sun began to chase away the stars and the moon. Harry had purposefully slowed enough to make Voldemort think he might win, only to hear his growl of annoyance when, just as the Dark Lord had reached out to grab his wrist, a sharp, mossy green stem shot up between them.

A wall of vines covered in thorns burst from the soil, tendrils so thick and lethal that the God of Death himself could not pass through. They twisted into a barrier of spikes, vicious and impenetrable.

Harry grinned. He had run this way specifically so that the devil's snare would come to his aid, which it had—though a bit too enthusiastically. One of the thorns had caught him about the forearm on its ascent, breaking open his skin and wounding him. The cut was healing even as he examined it, but his blood had splattered across a few of the tendrils, covering them in droplets of brilliant, liquid gold.

Harry was not upset. The forest was protecting him, and one could never expect nature not to be fierce. The injury was gone in moments—his immortal body in a constant state of regeneration.

Moving silently, Harry scaled one of the nearby trees, hiding himself in its branches. He listened with his back up against the bark, wondering if now, finally, Voldemort would see that he was doomed to failure.

Harry slowly turned to peer through the leaves, looking down at the Dark Lord and watching what he planned to do. Voldemort was staring at the wall of devil's snare with a blank look on his face, though his eyes were burning more brightly than ever.

After a long moment of what appeared to be nothing more than thoughtful contemplation, Voldemort finally moved. He turned away from the wall of thorns and, to Harry's surprise and supreme satisfaction… he _bowed._

"I see that I am no match for your… swiftness," Voldemort said with his head down, announcing his withdrawal from the chase.

He then stood, his expression still unreadable, his eyes still unnervingly vibrant. Voldemort walked away, moving at a much slower pace, now—a graceful saunter back to a place where must have been able to enter into the Underworld once more.

Harry laughed after he was gone, feeling gratified with his victory. He was certain that Death would never return to his forest, and that he would not ever see Lord Voldemort and his hellfire eyes again.

Harry didn't notice that the God called Death had taken something with him when he departed.


	5. Ichor

Voldemort took his time as he made his way back to the Underworld.

He did not _need_ to walk the many stairs down into the depths of his kingdom—he could easily travel through the shadows and darkness with an imperceptible swiftness—but he'd found that nothing was as good for contemplation as walking, or the rhythmic movement of the calm waters of his seas.

He decided to take the ferry.

The newly deceased souls parted at the divine presence of Hades, their God, their eternal master. Those who had just been about to board and cross to the other side quickly fled, their translucent, bodiless figures fearful even in death. They would wait to make their final passing.

The dead had nothing but time, after all.

Voldemort's faithful ferryman immediately bowed upon seeing him. "My Lord," he said, his dark hair falling forward and momentarily concealing his sallow features. "You have returned."

Voldemort acknowledged his servant with a curt nod and slight smile.

_Charon._

He too had once been a mortal man with a mortal name, a despairing soul without a body. Voldemort remembered quite clearly when he first laid eyes on this one. The Dark Lord could always sense the spirits with the darkest pasts, those who had died in the most horrific fashions.

For as horrible a reputation as the God called Death had, he was not nearly as cruel as most thought him to be. He could be persuaded to take pity, if the one pleading was logical and worthy.

Gods could not create other Gods—Immortals with such power were born, not made—but some deities had more power than others. Hades, as God of the Underworld, could choose to turn a soul away for a time, to allow then to return to the Earth…

Of course, those few who he granted this kindness always returned to him, eventually.

Yet there was one other gift he could bestow upon an expired soul, an ability which only he and Zeus shared, though in different ways:

The gift of eternity.

It was not the same as immortality. For Hades, he could give a bodiless soul a corporal form, and therefore the ability to feel, move, and be substantial. They would never age. They would exist that way forever.

But they could never leave the Underworld.

All that Voldemort required in exchange for this incredible gift was their undying loyalty, and the select few, miserable souls he had offered this to were always eager to be faithful.

The process was simple. Once he'd crafted them a form, he marked them, branding them forever with the sigil of death. Then, they needed only to consume the fruit of the Underworld. Even a single seed would suffice.

He called them his Death Eaters.

The Dark Lord's most favored, and it was this small but powerful group which assisted him in guiding his newly deceased property from one side to the other, and keeping them in line towards oblivion as more souls came pouring in.

This one—his ferryman—had once been a Prince. His story truly was… _tragic._

Thinking of it now made the Dark Lord grin sardonically. He would never rue the day he had decided to claim the fallen, heart-broken Prince as his own. "Take me to the Field of Flames," he instructed. "I do not wish to return to my palace at this time."

Charon nodded and stepped aside, allowing his master to sit. The hundreds of souls watched lifelessly from the shore as they departed, slowly sailing out onto a sea of eternal blackness.

Voldemort retrieved the devil's snare from his pocket.

The tiny tendril was frozen, now, cold and still at the touch of death once it had been severed form its whole. The tiny droplets of Harry's blood gleamed in the darkness, emitting a soft light that shone like a beacon in the darkness.

Charon looked over his shoulder at the sudden glow. His brows raised, his dark eyes widening in shock. "Is that—?"

His jaw clicked shut mid-sentence. Voldemort's Death Eaters knew better than to question him, _ever_ , and Charon had already lowered his head submissively, awaiting the backlash.

But the Dark Lord was feeling merciful at the moment. Besides, he could not fault his servant for being taken aback by such beauty. "Ichor. Yes," Voldemort murmured, answering Charon's unfinished question.

"…The blood of a God."

Voldemort could feel the weight of Charon's eyes on him, could practically hear his mind racing with his curiosity and desire to ask—but he wisely did not. Charon eventually turned his focus back to guiding the ferry, taking them deeper and deeper into Hell's endless waters.

The Dark Lord examined the small but significant amount of gold, luminous with life against the already decaying branch of devil's snare. Voldemort's eyes burned in the darkness, one thought consuming his mind:

_I have you now._

* * *

They arrived at the Field of Flames.

It was a misleading name, and purposefully so. There was no uncontained stretch of fire within Hell, much to the misconceptions of many. Yet Voldemort preferred to speak of it as such, if only to keep those who heard the whispers wondering.

It was an island, and it was full radiant flowers.

Voldemort could see the land from where they sailed, seemingly emitting a faint, red glow as a whole. From a distance, it would indeed appear as though it were on fire.

The boat stopped once they arrived, pulling into a shore of black sand which glittered like crushed obsidian. Charon stepped out so that his master could move past him more easily. "The Field of Flames," he announced, inclining his head.

Still holding the devil's snare tenderly in one hand, Voldemort stepped onto the shore. "Thank you, Charon… My poor, fallen _Prince_ …"

"Of course, My Lord." Charon looked up at him with dark eyes that shone in the reflected light of Ichor and scarlet blossoms. Voldemort could tell that he very badly wanted to know whose blood that was and what he planned on doing with it, here, where the King of Darkness kept his stallions of all places… but Charon held his tongue.

"You may return to your post. I no longer require your assistance."

Charon bowed reverently. His façade was nearly flawless, but the Dark Lord could sense his disappointment at not being instructed to wait to take him back by ferry later, so that he could watch what the Dark Lord might do.

"At once, master…"

His servant then climbed back into his boat and left, never making the mistake of looking back.

The Dark Lord turned his attention to the field.

The flowers which grew here were known as blood blossoms, and they were not truly plants, but something more. They existed only in the Underworld, glowing like embers with petals of rich, saturated crimson.

They tasted like blood, and it was this beautiful yet sinister vegetation which fed his stallions of death: The Dark Lord's thestrals.

 _Ah, but tonight,_ Voldemort thought gleefully, _a select few shall feast upon something_ much _more exquisite._

Voldemort walked slowly through the field, smiling fondly when he spotted a number of thestrals grazing. They were similar to horses, only larger and far more striking. They had not fur, but black skin which looked like leather stretched across their skeletal bodies. They had wings like a dragon and reptilian features on the faces, with wide, perfectly white eyes. Most thought them horrifying in their appearance, but Voldemort found them gorgeous.

He motioned for the two nearest to him to approach. Immediately, sensing the beckoning of their master—and possibly the Ichor—they ceased in their foraging and cantered towards him, their white eyes blank and staring.

"Hello, my beauties," the Dark Lord said, running his free hand along each of their necks. Already, their focus was solely on the devil's snare, hungry for a new kind of blood.

Voldemort's smile widened.

"For you, my precious pets…"

He held the tendril up to them, laying it across both of his palms. The thestrals gently licked at the precious few drops of blood, their tails flickering behind them contentedly.

Thestrals were incredible creatures. Not only were they the emblem of death—only Immortals could see them, as well as mortals who were nearing their fates or who had comprehended death on an intimate level—but they were _extremely_ intelligent.

They understood everything. They remembered everything. There was no place—or _person_ —who could hide from them.

And thestrals were very, _very_ swift.

"Remember this blood, my darlings… Commit this smell, this taste, to memory," Voldemort purred as they greedily consumed all the Ichor that there was. "For soon… we _hunt._ "

The stallions instantly perked up at that; Voldemort rarely hunted. Their excitement was palpable.

"Soon, but not yet."

The Dark Lord would not be leaving anything up to chance, not this time. Harry had already proven that he was not only fast, but… _lucky._ That forest bent to his will, and Voldemort did not wish to trek through it—even if he _did_ have the aid of his chariot and his thestrals.

Voldemort would do everything in his power to make this a quick and victorious chase.

Hades examined the blood blossoms at his feet, Harry's words from earlier echoing in his mind:

' _This is_ _my_ _forest. I know every tree and every shrub, every creature and every beast. I know the flowers by name. You could_ _never_ _catch me, here.'_

 _But you know nothing of my Kingdom, Kouros,_ Voldemort thought with a vindictive pleasure. _You have no idea the name of_ this _flower…_

He waited.

* * *

The next day was bright and warm.

Harry had snuck back to the trees where he and his mother usually rested, arriving before she woke and pretending as though he had been there the whole time.

She never suspected anything was amiss.

Lily went to tend to the nymphs of the southern parts of the forests—they had, apparently, been quarreling lately with the centaurs—while Harry spent the morning relaxing languidly with Ron and Hermione near the lake, feeling too lazy to do much after such little sleep. Gods could not die, but they could grow weary.

Hermione and Ron both noticed his atypical behavior. "Did you not sleep well, last night?" Hermione asked. "You seem exhausted."

"What? No, I'm fine," Harry said. "I'm just a bit tired, is all."

Hermione's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "I heard a lot of rustling in the woods last night. The trees have been whispering things."

"Yeah, the river was moving oddly this morning, too," Ron added, not helping his case. "It seems disturbed. Like something bothered it in the night."

They both stared at Harry. "What? How would I know anything about that?" he balked, blushing under their accusatory eyes.

It was a shame that he was a terrible liar. "Were you running through the woods at night, Harry?" Hermione asked leeringly. She didn't even wait for a response before scolding him. "You shouldn't do that, you know. You're a God of daylight and life; you're at a disadvantage in the darkness. Nothing good comes from wandering the woods at night."

Harry rolled his eyes at the way she repeated Lily's words with the exact same inflection. "Okay, maybe I went for a quick night run. I won't do it again."

He internally sighed in relief when she nodded, seeming appeased. At least she and Ron did not seem to know anything about the God of Death which had chased him. He would hate to needlessly worry them.

Hades had come, he'd hunted, and he'd lost. Harry was sure that he would not be back… not that he planned on going to fields full of sleeping flowers at night anymore, regardless.

' _It's dangerous to tempt the fates once, Harry,'_ his mother had once told him.

' _But it's a_ request _to tempt them twice.'_

Harry yawned, stretching out on the grass and feeling his eyes growing heavy. "If you don't want your mother to be suspicious, you shouldn't sleep all day," Hermione chided. "Otherwise you'll be up all night again."

"Yeah," Ron agreed. "You should keep yourself busy so that you just pass out in the evening. Then she'll never know!"

There was too much truth in this for Harry to ignore; the last thing he needed was to feel antsy again tonight and start feeling reckless. "You're right," he said, pushing himself to his feet. "I think I'll go gather flowers. I lost all the lilies I'd picked last time, I dropped them…"

He failed to mention _why_ it was he'd dropped these flowers in the first place. Fortunately, they did not ask.

"Have fun," Hermione said brightly.

"You know where to find us, when you get bored of that."

Ron smiled before vanishing in a whirl of water, dispersing back into the lake. Hermione fluidly resumed her tree form, a tall and lovely oak.

Harry went to the fields.

The day lilies were magnificent as usual, vibrant and white. Harry tried to focus solely on their beauty and not on the fact that it had been here, just days ago, that he had spotted a God in the distance… Lord Voldemort in his mortal form, with black eyes and shrouded in an even blacker aura…

The aura of _Death…_

But that had been a chance meeting, Harry reminded himself. He _lost._ He wouldn't be back—at least, not in the middle of the day.

 _And I won't be_ requesting _the fates to see him again by running around at night, either,_ he thought firmly.

Feeling mollified, Harry began to gather lilies. Just as he was reaching for his second one, he saw it.

A red flower.

…A _red_ flower?

Harry stared, dropping the lily in shock when he spotted it. There were not _red_ flowers in this forest, not like that. This flower was crimson, this flower was _glowing._

It was gorgeous.

Harry rushed towards it, laughing as he did. A new flower! How exciting! He couldn't wait to show it to his mother. Perhaps they could name it together? Harry was just about to pick it when he paused.

What if it was the only one of its kind? What if he plucked it, and there would never be another?

Harry bit his lower lip, conflicted. He could wait until Lily returned, and bring her here to see it… But she would probably be gone all day, she was in the most southern parts of the woods, dealing with a dispute…

Too impatient not to take it to her at once—and convincing himself that if there was one here, now, there would surely be more to follow—Harry reached down to pick the scarlet bloom.

The ground fell apart.

Harry barely jumped out of the way in time before a chasm in the Earth opened like a mouth, a hole leading down into a pit of pure darkness. Harry dropped the flower, heart racing as he scrambled backwards, away from the crumbling ground—

For a suspended moment, Harry thought it must be a dream.

No… _A nightmare._

Out of the chasm came two massive, fierce steads like no other horses Harry had ever seen—black and skeletal, with bat-like wings and moonstone eyes. They were pulling a dark chariot, and the man upon it who was holding the reigns looked more regal and God-like than ever before. His eyes, which were the precise same color as the flower which Harry had just tried to pull from the Earth, were _gleaming,_ predatory and rapacious.

Voldemort was smiling.

Harry ran.

He ran as quickly as he could, he ran with all the force he could muster. He sprinted for the tree line, willing the forest around him to come to his aid.

It was apparent at once that he would not be able to outrun the Dark Lord, this time.

The roots of the lilies tried to help him, but the hooves of the black horses crushed them with ease. The wind blew, bringing with it deterring scents of other creatures, but the stallions were unaffected: they were focused only on Harry.

"Help!" Harry cried, unsure who he was pleading to—the Sun God? The God of the Heavens?—as the chariot of Death drew ever nearer. He would not make it to the trees, he was not fast enough. "Help me, _please!_ "

If anyone heard his cry, they did not respond.

Harry screamed when he felt something wrap around his midsection, sweeping him up with ease. Voldemort held him like he weighed nothing at all, gripping the reigns with one arm and Harry captive in the other. He was _unfathomably_ strong.

His scream died in his throat when Voldemort tightened his grasp, his lips to Harry's ear, grinning wickedly.

" _I win."_

The ground broke open again before them. Harry was helpless as they descended into darkness, leaving all traces of the Earth, life, and sunlight behind.


	6. The Inevitable Descent

It felt like falling from the heavens.

Harry had that fleeting thought as they descended into the darkness of Hades' kingdom, though he knew it was both an inaccurate and absurd notion. Harry had never been to the heavens, where the majority of the Gods dwelled, he had been born and lived all his life in the mortal realm…

And he was not _falling_ to _Earth_ … he was being _dragged_ into _hell._

The ground closed behind them as the horses dove, shadows swallowing them whole. Harry's eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness, and his rapidly beating heart stilled at what he saw.

The vastness of Voldemort's domain was striking. The dark realm stretched out in all directions, seemingly endless, a huge, unnatural body of water directly below them. For a horrifying moment that felt much longer than it was, it seemed they were going to dive directly into its depths.

Harry, who had been struggling fruitlessly to make Voldemort let go of him, suddenly clung to his waist, terrified of falling. Voldemort's wicked smile widened. Amusement glinted in his eyes, anything but afraid.

The Dark Lord turned his attention towards his steads, pulled the reigns more tightly, and let out a deep, wordless command.

The horses reacted at once by unfurling their leathery wings… and they began to fly.

The sensation of switching so quickly from falling to soaring was disorienting enough that Harry's fear momentarily left him. The horses neighed, a strangely magnificent sound as they floated through the darkness, seemingly without any effort at all. Their wings didn't even move.

Harry stared with huge eyes, gaping at all which he saw. Now that he could focus, he noticed that the ocean was not endless, after all… There was a shoreline, and upon it there were hundreds—no, _thousands_ of translucent, lightly glowing people… Shimmering, and…

The _dead._

Harry shuddered, looking away.

Ahead of them was the vague outline of city, situated on an island, in the center of which was a giant castle. Spindly towers reached up towards the concealed heavens, lights both from within and outside of the structure making the entire kingdom glow.

Harry couldn't help it, he gasped in awe at the sight. It was a gorgeous empire, there was no denying that, and Harry was wholly mesmerized by it.

Voldemort glanced at him, a horrendously arrogant expression on his face.

Harry's fear—as well as a plethora of other emotions—came rushing back.

He tried to say something, but his mouth seemed to have forgotten how to work. His lips parted but did nothing he willed them to do, his tongue was still in his mouth as he looked up at this terrifying, regal God whose hold on him was literally the grip of death, tight and unyielding.

Voldemort laughed and pulled the reigns once more, causing his horses to let out another cry and increase their speed, exponentially so. Wind whipped past them, causing the Dark Lord's hair to catch in the breeze. It danced across Harry's cheek as he leaned closer to him, and Harry was too overwhelmed, too stunned to do anything about it.

"Welcome to my kingdom, Harry," he purred, inclining his head towards the majestic and foreboding castle in the distance. He brushed his lips against Harry's ear, laughing softly when his captive's body quivered in his grasp.

"Welcome _home_."

* * *

They city was even more glorious up close.

The skeletal horses flew so quickly that they arrived just moments later, descending into a courtyard in front of the castle. There were more dead mortals here, Harry noted, their forms translucent and emitting a soft glow. They all turned their hollow gazes towards Voldemort and his chariot as they touched down, a seamless and fluid landing. The horses slowed their trot until they were still. The deceased recoiled in fear, lowering their heads in submission as they retreated.

Once they had stopped moving, Voldemort grip on Harry's waist loosened slightly. He picked him up and lowered him lightly onto the ground before Harry could even think to retaliate, moving so agilely that the Dark Lord's movements were nearly imperceptible.

Voldemort then turned his attention to his horses. He released his hold on Harry and stood in front of his steads, grazing his long, pale fingers along their necks and heads. They nuzzled against his hand, and he smiled fondly. "You have done well, my darlings," he praised, unlatching them from the chariot. "Leave me, now. Return to the Field of Flames."

They obeyed at once. The strange horses immediately they took to the air, wings still as they flew out of sight, quickly blending in with the shadows of the Underworld.

Voldemort looked at Harry, and his fond smile became dangerous and wicked once more. Adrenaline exploded in Harry's veins, and in a thrill of terror, he finally regained control of his body. Harry whipped around, preparing to flee, uncaring that he was no longer in his beloved forest.

He took only a few steps before Voldemort was directly in front of him, having seemingly appeared there from _nothing._

The Dark Lord didn't say anything, nor did he reach for Harry.

He only smiled.

Harry turned and sprinted in the opposite direction, heart pounding against his ribcage. Again, Voldemort was suddenly _there_ , present in a flash of shadows.

Smiling.

His eyes gleamed, full of a twisted mirth.

Again and again, Harry turned and ran, his desperation mounting as his every effort was blocked by the omniscient God of Death.

By his seventh futile attempt, Voldemort was laughing. He finally put a stop to what he clearly thought was a game, grasping Harry's wrists with both hands. His fingers felt like shackles.

"Don't you understand, Harry?" he murmured, his voice laced with amusement. "You are in _my_ world, now… You cannot run from me, here."

Harry tried to wrench himself out of Voldemort's grip, but it was useless. "Let me go," he demanded, surprising himself by how steady his voice sounded. "Take me back to my forest! Take me…"

Harry's voice trailed off as, impossibly enough, his attention was diverted from the God which held him.

" _Massster…"_

A _snake_ , a huge, _monstrous_ snake was slithering towards them. It was the most terrifying creature that Harry had ever seen—a serpent with three heads, glistening green scales, and six, crimson eyes that shone like rubies.

It was _petrifying._

It was coming _right for them._

Voldemort followed Harry's gaze, looking over his shoulder at the beast. He did not seem concerned; in fact, his smile became much kinder upon seeing it.

" _Massster issss home…"_

Voldemort let go of Harry's right wrist so that he could extend an open palm towards the serpent. One of the snake's heads leaned into his touch, while another looked disinterested, its gaze hungry and looking out towards the lost souls which were cowering away from them.

The head in the center, however, was focused solely on Harry.

" _Massster hasss brought a_ mortal _boy…"_ it hissed, tongue flickering at Harry's wrist. _"Isss he for usss?"_

" _No!"_

Harry shouted indignantly before Voldemort could. The Dark Lord's expression cleared in an instant at his outburst, his grasp on Harry's other wrist slackening as he looked at him with eyes widened in shock.

" _I'm not for you, I'm not for anyone,"_ Harry said, taking advantage of Voldemort's surprise and pulling his other arm free. _"And I'm not a mortal,"_ he added, glaring.

He took a step away. Surprisingly, Voldemort did not immediately grab him again. He was glancing back and forth between Harry and the serpent, looking so astonished that Harry might have found it funny, were he not so afraid.

"You can speak it,"Voldemort murmured, amazed. "You are a Parselmouth."

Harry raised one eyebrow. "A what, now?"

"A Parselmouth." The snake, Nagini, had begun to coil herself around her master's body, draping over his shoulders in a way that Harry could tell she did often. One of the heads was nuzzling into his neck, another still focused on the souls, looking hungry. The middle head, however, had not removed its eyes from Harry once. "It means that you can speak to snakes," the Dark Lord clarified, speaking softly.

"Oh." Harry shook his head, tearing his gaze from the unnerving, calculating stare of the serpent. "I didn't know it had a name. I've always been able to talk to snakes."

Harry shrugged. He'd never thought much of the ability; he was a God, after all. Gods and Goddesses had many powers, and his mother, the only other divine being he'd known, had never led him to believe that it was that special.

Judging by how thunderstruck Voldemort seemed, Harry could tell it must be _very_ special.

To the Dark Lord, at least.

His shocked demeanor did not last long. Voldemort's smile swiftly returned, darker and more wicked than ever.

Nagini's heads all turned towards Voldemort, their tongues suddenly flickering wildly at his neck and face. _"Massster issss arousssed…"_ the second head hissed, more curious than anything.

Voldemort glared at her, removing the serpent from his shoulders and setting her at his feet. _"Leave me,"_ he commanded. _"Now,"_ he snapped, when she hesitated, looking confused. The snake didn't pause after such a direct order, though, and slithered away in a forlorn fashion.

The Dark Lord didn't watch her go. His eyes were all for Harry, blatantly roving over his body as he advanced—vibrantly red, savage.

Harry took a step back, his pulse erratic. "D-don't…"

What he was telling Voldemort not to do, Harry wasn't quite sure, but it hardly mattered. The Dark Lord ignored him. He lunged forward, grabbing Harry around the waist and picking him up with an absurd ease. Harry's struggles were so ineffective that it was mortifying.

Just as he was about to scream in protest, the most horrid sensation clamped down on Harry's mind like a vice.

Everything went black, and Harry felt like he was being compressed into something nonexistent, only to be shoved through an infinitely small space. He couldn't see, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't—

Just as panic was about to consume him entirely, the feeling vanished. Harry opened his eyes to find that they were somewhere else, somewhere… inside…

"Forgive me," Voldemort said, his lips pressed to Harry's forehead. "I know the sensation is… uncomfortable."

Harry shook his head, writhing in the Dark Lord's arms, disoriented. Voldemort let him go, and set him down carefully on…

A bed?

Lucidity came crashing back with the force of a tidal wave. Harry scrambled away, jumping up from the bed and retreating to the other side of the room. Voldemort allowed him to, watching him hungrily.

"Let me go," Harry demanded again.

"No," Voldemort answered predictably.

A moment of silence. Voldemort's eyes were glittering, making Harry's skin crawl with foreboding. "I want to see what you truly are," he said, his gaze flashing down the length of Harry's body. "Your _divine_ form…"

Harry shook his head in refusal. Voldemort's hungry possession became darker, more lethal.

"Show me."

The demand was soft, but it was a demand all the same. Harry squared his shoulders, looked away.

"No," Harry said, matching Voldemort's tone from a moment before perfectly.

Voldemort swept across the room in a flourish of darkness, the embodiment of shadows. Harry hardly perceived the motion before the King of the Underworld was right in front of him again, so near that Harry could count the lashes that framed those searing, crimson eyes.

" _Show me_ ," he repeated, his voice far colder.

Harry hid his fear behind a mask of defiance. "Why? Why does it matter, what appearance I choose?"

"Why do _you_ prefer to stay in your weak, mortal form?"

"Because," Harry said simply. When Voldemort's eyes narrowed, his fury visibly mounting, Harry swallowed thickly and elaborated. "Because it isn't wise, to remain in your divine form all the time. The deities who do tend to let the power go to their heads. They go mad with it, they do horrible things. They believe they're better than everyone and everything else."

"We _are_ better, Kouros," Voldemort hissed. "We are _Gods_."

"Don't call me that." Harry shook his head, glaring. "It's Harry, and… You're wrong. We aren't better, only different. _All_ life is precious."

Voldemort reached up and placed his hand under Harry's jaw, gently but resolutely holding him in place. Harry winced but did not stop him. "If that is truly what you believe, _Harry,_ that _all_ life is precious… Then show me. Reveal to me your true form, or I will return to your beloved forest and burn it to the ground. I will kill every nymph, every dryad… I will claim every single soul and drag them down into the abyss of my world with me… Only unlike you, a God, their _superior_ , they will _not_ survive the descent…"

Harry's blood ran cold. "You wouldn't."

"I am _Death_ , Harry." Voldemort leaned closer, speaking into his ear.

"…And I am _always_ hungry."

Harry shoved his hand away, withdrawing until there was a comfortable distance between them. Voldemort laughed softly, allowing the retreat. "Fine," he snarled, knowing he had little choice. He would never allow Voldemort to harm his friends.

"Fine."

Harry closed his eyes and exhaled, his façade slipping away with the loss of his breath.

* * *

Voldemort was enraptured.

He knew very well what his parents'—Hades own siblings—looked like in all _their_ glory, and he had been unable to stop himself from speculating wildly on what their son must look like. He had constructed a fantasy in his mind while he waited for the boy to pluck the blood blossom, had invented an image in his mind that was nothing short of miraculous.

His imagination did not do the reality justice.

The boy's mortal skin, which had been darkened by the sun, took on a slightly lighter hue. It glistened with the softest touch of gold, like he had been dusted in molten, warm diamonds. His hair, which was already dark, somehow became even blacker, even more wild—like the swirling, black clouds of an untamable and imminent storm.

Across his chest and around his arms, down his torso and curling around his ankles… he was covered in markings like ivy, a deep, saturated green. Each tendril was lined with the slightest accent of gold, brilliant like starlight, gilded leaves and flower buds that had not yet blossomed thriving across the landscape of his body.

Harry opened his eyes. Irises of vivacious green met Voldemort's own, framed by lashes like spider's legs, dusted in that same, golden glint that adorned his entire being.

For the second time that night—in his _entire, immortal existence_ —the God of the Underworld was rendered speechless.

He was perfect.

Harry shifted uncomfortably, face flushing when Voldemort said nothing, only stared. The young God looked down, lips parting, making to cover himself more fully with the simple tunic he wore—he was so shy, so nervous, so _innocent_ —

He was perfect.

Voldemort swept across the room, gently lifting Harry's chin again so that he was looking up. His face burned brighter, and the Dark Lord had never seen anything so enchanting as that alluring blush.

"Gorgeous," he sighed, eyes burning into Harry's, lost in that immaculate green. "Beautiful," he said, tearing his gaze away from those eyes only to flicker briefly to his lips.

Harry tried to back away, then, fear and anxiety radiating about him—but Voldemort tightened his hold on his jaw. He wouldn't let him go, _couldn't_.

The God of Death would _never_ let this golden God escape his grasp again.

_Never._

Voldemort leaned in closer, ignoring the way Harry pushed against his chest. Beautiful, but physically weak. The boy had inherited more of his mother's grace than his father's force. Harry was gorgeous and gifted, but not outwardly powerful.

He was perfect.

Voldemort claimed his chosen one with a kiss, capturing his lips with his own. He had never felt such elation before, such bliss. The second their lips touched, it was like lightning striking his very soul, only hotter, more intense. Zeus's blows could never be so powerful.

The Dark Lord bit at Harry's lower lip, demanding access with his teeth and tongue. When Harry gasped, he took advantage of his shock, tongue diving in, claiming every crevice, blood running unfathomably hot even as Harry whimpered into his mouth, pushing futilely at his chest.

If this was love, it was intoxicating. If this was love, then the descent was inevitable, the loss of control overwhelming.

He _needed_ it.

Voldemort slipped his hand across Harry's shoulder, fingers grazing his glimmering skin under the fabric of his tunic, pushing it aside. It didn't matter that Harry was resisting him now, he _wouldn't_ be. Voldemort broke their kiss so that he could speak into Harry's ear, his words heavy with lust.

"You are _mine,"_ he breathed. Harry's body trembled against him, and Voldemort relished it, delighted in the feel of his muscles quivering… longed to make him quiver _more._

"Forever."

Voldemort was lost to desire.


	7. Undeniable Bliss

Voldemort tore Harry's tunic suddenly and viciously, fingers curling around the fabric over his chest and ripping it with ease. When Harry tried instinctually to hold it up and cover himself, Voldemort grabbed his wrists and easily held them above his head, allowing the torn fabric to fall to the floor.

The Dark Lord wrapped his arm around Harry's waist, and in a rapid motion, picked him up and flung him onto the bed.

Everything froze.

Harry looked lightheaded, confused, so deliciously afraid—but as he laid there on his back, beautifully exposed with the God called Death towering over him—time seemed suspended.

Voldemort's eyes were gleaming, but he was no longer darkly amused, his lips were not curved in a sardonic grin. He was staring down at Harry in his nudity, mesmerized by the exquisiteness of him… and for a fractional moment, he could tell that the young God thought he might be reconsidering, that he might withdraw.

He didn't.

The Dark Lord disrobed with a single gesture, his clothes dispersing into shadows at his will. They had not yet fully dissipated before he was straddling Harry's waist, tendrils of darkness still clinging to his skin.

Harry visibly forced himself not to look down at the irrefutable proof of the Dark Lord's lust, of what was going to happen.

"S-s-stop!" he stuttered out. Harry pushed at Voldemort legs, trying feebly to escape, but he was trapped between his thighs like he was ensnared in an iron vice. Voldemort smirked—he was so powerful that he did not even need to use his hands to hold his chosen one.

Voldemort grabbed his wrists again, pinning them above his head as he leaned closer to him, so near that he could feel Harry's hitching breath against his skin. Harry stopped struggling, muscles tensing at the sudden and intimate proximately.

"P…please," he whispered, looking unwaveringly into the Dark Lord's eyes despite his anxiety. "I d-don't…"

While the sounds of Harry's resistance were lovely, Voldemort was determined to hear him cry out with _want_ , instead. He lowered one arm so that he could card his fingers through his hair, easily holding both of his thin wrists with his other hand. Harry shuddered at the unexpected, gentle touch.

"Why are—"

" _Shhh_ …"

Voldemort put a finger to Harry's mouth, quieting him with a soft touch and soothing sound. It clearly wasn't the action his captive had expected. While Harry's eyes were still widened in shock, Voldemort once more claimed those full, trembling lips with his own.

He was tender, this time, he was slow. Voldemort cupped Harry's face with one hand, tracing his jaw and bidding him to relax into his touch, his tongue sliding against his bottom lip as though asking for permission.

Of course, Harry didn't reciprocate the kiss.

Not at first.

Harry was still rigid beneath him, but Voldemort was not troubled—he would have his back arching into the sheets soon enough. The Dark Lord left his mouth to trail his tongue along Harry's jawline, relishing the gasp that escaped his throat when pressed his lips to his neck.

"D—"

Harry's attempt at speaking again was completely derailed when Voldemort began sucking at the skin there, and he instead let out a high and beautiful sigh. His arms jerked above him, but Voldemort constrained him with ease.

The Dark Lord was inwardly gloating; he had only to ravish the boy's neck for him to fall prey to the same lust that he had. Voldemort slid his free hand down Harry's torso, delighted when he could feel Harry's previously limp cock throb at his touch, hardening in his palm.

The simple grazing of his finger along Harry's length made him react gloriously; Harry's hips bucked forward and his sigh turned into a moan. Voldemort continued to ravish his neck as he began stroking him, gleeful with how his body reacted so viscerally to his touch, clearly yearning. His gold God was erect in seconds.

The ivy, too… the vines were coiling, the leaves were turning as though in celebration… It was _fascinating_ , the way every part of him responded, and Voldemort found himself suddenly enraptured by the flower buds, all of which were still closed.

He wanted to watch them _bloom_.

When the Dark Lord caught Harry's bottom lip between his teeth again, there was no resistance. Voldemort's tongue dove in to a mouth that was open and desperate and _longing._

In the heat of the much more passionate, reciprocated kiss, the Dark Lord released his hold on Harry's wrists so that he could tangle his fingers in his hair. For a magnificent moment, Voldemort thought he'd won, could feel Harry's nails drag across his back and into his shoulders—

But then he was shoving him, _hard_. Their kiss was broken as the Dark Lord sat up straight, grasping Harry's retaliating wrists again with a snarl of annoyance.

Harry was flushed and panting, eyes dilated with obvious _want_ … but he looked more confused than anything else. "What are you doing to me?" he said between labored breaths.

The asinine question caught Voldemort so off guard that he forgot to be furious.

It was not a venomous statement, it was a genuine, honest question. Voldemort could see it in Harry's emerald eyes: He truly did not understand what was happening.

The Dark Lord felt a fleeting thrill of despair. Had the Fates cursed him to fall in instantaneous love with an _idiot_?

But no, no… this God was not foolish—stubborn and reckless, perhaps, but intelligent. Even in the few interactions they'd had, it was clear that Kouros was not _stupid_ …

Voldemort figured it out in a lightning strike of clarity. He released Harry's hands, letting his arms fall to his sides.

"You do not know what sex is," he said bluntly.

Harry's face turned a brilliant shade of red, causing the golden glint of his divine skin to intensify. "I know what sex is!" he said indignantly, despite his palpable embarrassment, despite _everything_.

"You know what sex is in the same manner that a blind man knows color, that a deaf man knows music," Voldemort replied softly. "You know what it _is_ , but you don't… _know_."

Harry didn't need to respond for Voldemort to know that he was correct.

It must have been Demeter's doing.

Once he'd come to that conclusion, the Dark Lord was hardly surprised. Harry had said himself that those were _his_ forests, and seeing as Voldemort had never known such a God to exist before…

Kouros must have been born on Earth, knowing few, if _any_ other divine beings besides his mother… Demeter, who had abandoned Olympus, Zeus, and all the other Gods, bitter and choosing to dwell in the mortal realm…

Of course she would raise her son in negligence. She probably feared that he would become like his father, otherwise—arrogant and forceful. It was perfectly logical that the Goddess of the Harvest would keep from her son the knowledge of lust, of sexual pleasure.

Harry had spent his entire immortal life thus far in ignorance of bliss.

"Why do you think humans have sex?" Voldemort asked lightly, still straddling him.

Harry's cheeks were such a bright tint of crimson that Voldemort could feel the heat radiating off him. As endearing as it was, he resisted the urge to take his innocence right then and there. "T-to… to reproduce," he answered awkwardly.

"Wrong."

Voldemort began trailing his fingers across Harry's chest, where the ivy-like tendrils curved and coiled in response. Harry was either too flustered or secretly enjoying it too much to stop him. "Humans-as well as a few other creatures, arguably—are unique in that they have sex for _pleasure_ , Harry," the Dark Lord murmured, quickly leaning down and swirling his tongue along his neck for a moment as though to illustrate the point. Harry's throat constricted, audible breathlessness, and it was _beautiful_. "Gods are the same way… we _fuck_ because it feels good… and often, the occasional child conceived between a male and a female as a result is unintentional. But anyone can fuck anything, really… It just so happens that _I_ want _you_."

Voldemort ruined whatever Harry's response to that may have been by lowering one hand to his hips, just inches away from Harry's erection. "So, the answer to your previous question, then…" he said, wrapping his fingers around Harry's cock and smirking when his entire body twitched.

"I am _enlightening_ you."

He once more crushed his lips over Harry's, who only had the wherewithal to try and resist him for a moment. Voldemort kept one hand on his length and had the other in his hair, fingers tangled in his unruly locks and pulling his head back, demanding more access. Harry's hands, finally free, were shaking, and Voldemort couldn't tell whether he was trying to push him away or not. Harry probably wasn't sure himself. He was so innocent, so _confused_.

Voldemort would show him.

He would make him _bloom_.

The Dark Lord began trailing kisses down his neck and across his chest, reveling how the ivy twisted, how the golden glint of his skin brightened like stardust. Yet even though his body was clearly aching for him, even though he was so obviously _enjoying_ this, Harry reached down and grabbed Voldemort's hair just as he had reach his navel, stopping him. Voldemort glanced up at his face with narrowed eyes.

"W-wait," Harry breathed, shaking his head.

Voldemort's lips twitched, feeling smug— _wait_ was a far cry from _stop_. "Wait?" he repeated mockingly, sliding his hands down Harry's erection again. Harry let out a sharp sound that threatened to turn into a moan, but which he stifled, biting his lower lip and shaking his head again.

"Stop," he gasped this time. "I don't want—"

"But you _do_ ," Voldemort purred, interrupting him and continuing to fondle him, teasing, eyes gleaming. "It must be disorienting, but you cannot deny it. You _crave_ this, you are _brimming_ with desire. Every inch of you is _yearning_ …"

Harry bit back another moan when Voldemort lowered his lips to one of his hips, lightly biting him there, tongue swirling over the sensitive skin suggestively.

"Ah-I-I—"

Harry went breathless, and his body betrayed him in his defiance as his fingers, which were wrapped tightly in Voldemort's hair, previously trying to drag him away, loosened, pressing him closer, wanting more—

" _No!"_

He came back to himself a moment later, just as Voldemort was about to reward his submissiveness with his mouth around his cock.

His patience waned.

Voldemort grabbed Harry by the waist and picked him up, crossing the room in a flash and pressing his back against the wall. Shadows like chains bled from the wallpaper, obeying the God of Death's every whim. They ensnared Harry's wrists and held them at his sides, forcing him to wrap his legs around Voldemort's waist for any kind of support.

"Why," Voldemort snarled, his arms under Harry's thighs as he stood between them—a stance which placed his beautiful captive in such a vulnerable and tempting position that it took all his willpower to focus on speaking. "Are you so resistant, when you so clearly want me—want _this_?"

He angled his hips forward, his cock between Harry's cheeks and nearly losing control before he'd finished making his point. Harry tried to lean away, but he couldn't move, was trapped by Voldemort's all-encompassing power.

"This isn't r-right," Harry breathed, yet even his words of retaliation were low and heavy with longing. "Y-you can't just take me from my home and-and make me feel _this_ , make me _want_ this—"

Even the slightest, verbal admission that Harry _did_ want him was enough to make Voldemort unravel.

"But I can," he hissed, quickly slicking his cock with a simple thought, nothing beyond his abilities here in Hell. "And I did," he said, holding Harry's legs up higher and pressing against his entrance, eliciting the most delicious sound Harry had made yet, a cross between a whimper and a moan.

"And I _will_."

He plunged in, harder than he'd meant to, but there was no help for it—Harry cried out beautifully at the intrusion, a mixture of pleasure and pain. Voldemort was truly glad to have fallen for an immortal being, then, for a human would have been solely in agony at such an action.

But not a God.

Voldemort moaned at the heat of him, how his body felt like it was made for him and him alone.

He paused. Voldemort ravished Harry's neck with his cock buried to the hilt, savoring the moment and allowing him to adjust to the feeling of being completely and irrevocably _owned_. Probably completely despite himself, Harry's hips began rocking back before Voldemort had intended to move.

The Dark Lord had never felt more arrogant than in that moment. He pulled out, only so that he could thrust into him again, slower, this time. He watched the way Harry's eyelids fluttered, enthralled by the coating of golden dust glistening on his lashes, by the coiling ivy that twisted in delight.

"Do you still want me to stop?" Voldemort murmured, slowly pulling out again, waiting.

It took a moment for Harry to gather his bearings enough to speak. "Fuck you," he growled, voice throaty and low. Even in his hostility, Harry's hips were moving forward, his body which had been depraved for so long desperate for release. Voldemort grabbed his hips and held them there, immobilizing him.

"That doesn't answer my question," Voldemort said, whispering the words into Harry's ear and making his spine quiver.

Harry swallowed thickly, his eyes a most enticing tint of brilliant green. He was _radiant_.

"Fuck you, I don't."

Voldemort smiled.

The shadows which held Harry's wrists against the wall vanished, and his arms wrapped around Voldemort's neck, moaning when the Dark Lord thrust into him again.

Harry moved with him and clawed at his back and even when his emerald eyes watered with tears in the midst of such pleasure, a bubbling emotion which Voldemort did not understand, it was _glorious_.

He licked the tears away, unconcerned.

"There is no going back," he murmured in Harry's ear, sensing his young God's oncoming orgasm, alongside his own. "You will never _not_ crave this feeling, after this… You will never _not_ be plagued by lust…"

Harry's nails dug into his back, viciously hard. Voldemort was sure he'd drawn blood. "That's right," he praised, knowing that they were both past the point of no return. "Come for me, gorgeous…"

Harry came with a guttural moan, fingers coated in the ichor of Hades' blood, gold on his hands and on his skin. Voldemort came almost immediately after, lost in his heat, in his undeniable bliss.

There was no going back.

* * *

The sun was beginning to set.

Lily left the southern forests, feeling drained but accomplished. The dispute between the centaurs and the nymphs was, as expected, ridiculous. The centaurs kept claiming that they needed to destroy more of the trees for wood so that they could build more weapons.

' _Mars is bright. The God of War is warning us of oncoming horrors on the Earth, so we must be prepared!'_

Well, Lily couldn't allow the destruction of innocent trees for the peace of mind of some centaurs. She put a stop to the destruction, and made a mental note to bid Ares to visit her, soon. Lily did not remain awake at night, but if he really _was_ burning more brightly in some signal of foreboding, then she wanted to know about it… though it was far more likely that the centaurs were fabricating things. They frequently did, those mysterious and imaginative creatures.

She arrived back home just as the sky was turning a cascade of beautiful colors. She wondered if Harry was still awake, or if he, too, was admiring the kaleidoscopic hues.

The wind blew, and Lily realized something was not right.

The lilies. The day lilies had been torn asunder, like something had trampled them down. The entire forest was brimming with a sense of terror, wordless vibrations of distress.

"Harry?" she called, beginning to run towards the tree line.

"Lily!"

Hermione came rushing from the woods with Ron, the water nymph, at her side. "Where is Harry?" Lily asked at once, the expression of dread on their faces making her blood run cold.

Hermione shook her head. "W-we don't know," she whispered, fearful. "There was a disturbance in the forest, we all felt it—it was coming from this field, and we came as quickly as we could, but by the time we arrived, there was nothing here, and… and Harry was gone."

… _Gone._

Lily's mind went momentarily blank.

"My son is gone?" she asked, though it felt like someone else was speaking with her lips.

Hermione and Ron both nodded, and Hermione's eyes watered. "We've been looking everywhere, but he's nowhere to be found," Ron said. "It's like he just… vanished."

Lily turned as though she was in a trance. She ran her fingers along what remained of the day lilies, bidding them to tell her what had happened here… but though flowers had a language all their own, they could not speak. She could only perceive their feelings of complete and utter terror, of powerlessness.

Harry had not simply vanished. Her son would never leave this place, not willingly.

There was only person it could have been.

Most of the Gods did not even know of Harry's existence. With the exception of Sirius, whom Lily had made the mistake of allowing into her forest only a few times before banishing him, too, and…

But he wouldn't.

He had sworn, he had made an oath… He had given his word that he would never again seek out…

Demeter.

Zeus had sworn that he would never come to Demeter again… but he had, technically, made no such promise concerning their son.

Lily's fingers curled into fists at her sides. Was this his plan, then? Was he so desperate, even after all these years, that he would wait until they were far enough apart so that he could steal her son away, forcing _her_ to seek _him_ out so that he could speak to her again?

Her cold blood ignited with rage. If that was Zeus's plan, then it was going to work… and he was going to rue this day for the rest of his eternal existence.

Lily turned and faced the heavens, transitioning into her Goddess form in a flash of fury. Hermione and Ron recoiled at the sudden brilliance of it, shielding their eyes from her glory.

"I shall return," she said simply.

Lily ascended into the heavens for the first time in centuries, the embodiment of the harvest, of _wrath_.


	8. A Great and Terrible Wrath

Zeus had not lingered on Earth long after his encounter with his brother.

Tom, Hades, Pluto, _Voldemort_ …

It was a bit ridiculous, the fact that he had invented yet _another_ name for himself. Didn't they all have quite enough already?

It seemed the separation of mortal and immortal titles was becoming more complicated all the time. Some Gods and Goddesses hated their human names and thus never used them; the God of the Underworld had devised an altogether new one in some attempt to become even _more_ imposing, and then…

And then there was Demeter.

Demeter, in direct opposition of Voldemort, had cast her divine name aside many years ago, detesting it and all which it stood for.

Zeus could not fault her.

He had been reckless, foolish, and terrible. His pride had been so wounded after her initial rejection that he had tricked her, had taken her by force in the form of a despicable _serpent_ , of all things…

Thus, he had sealed his fate. No amount of apologizing could earn her forgiveness, and Demeter had used the offering of his promise to do anything to rectify his wrongs against him, banishing him forever.

Zeus had been consumed with regret, but at the time, was too proud to admit it. He continued to be reckless, foolish, and terrible. He acted out in ways even more atrocious. Zeus repeated his mistakes on Demeter's sister, chasing her because he could not chase Demeter any longer—like she might be close enough, like she might make the void of his loss feel _slightly_ less horrible.

But Hera was _nothing_ like her sister.

The one thing the two sisters had in common was that their mortal names were both after flowers. Yet Hera was _not_ a Goddess of the Harvest, and she had never had any of the plentiful gifts that Demeter had been blessed with. Hera was a jealous, bitter Goddess.

She was so different from her sister, in fact, that Hera had reacted to Zeus's vile acts of trickery and rape in the exact opposite manner. Rather than force him away from her, she demanded that she marry him instead, to cover her disgrace. Hera was far more concerned with rules, expectations, and what others thought of her than anything else.

To this day, Zeus would question why he had agreed.

The closest answer he could come up with was guilt, though that was not a real explanation.

For a very brief time, he had thought that maybe a wife was what he needed. He was the King of the Gods, after all. A King needed a Queen. Perhaps marriage would change him, he'd thought, ignorant.

It hadn't.

All these years later, and still Zeus longed for the one entity he could not have.

No amount of drinking and whoring could make him completely forget what he had lost, though he did try. He _wanted_ to forget. Zeus forced himself to not dwell on Demeter, and he found it was easier to do so when he assumed the mortal form of James and spent time on Earth. The humans were an extremely distracting and dramatic bunch, and Dionysus, his constant companion, never failed to amuse him.

One time, in a moment of weakness, Zeus had sent Dionysus to spy on her.

He knew it was foolish and bordered on breaking his word, but he was too curious. Dionysus obeyed, of course… and that was how Zeus came to learn that he had another son.

A son with Demeter! She had kept a child a secret from him for years! Zeus immediately ordered Dionysus to learn what he could about the boy, desperate to know.

Demeter had given their child the simplest, least impressive name that any God had ever been granted— _Kouros._ She might as well have just called him _boy_ and been done with it, Zeus had thought scathingly. Some attempt at teaching him humility or something, he supposed.

Not that it mattered much, what his divine title was. It was as Dionysus had said—Kouros, just like his mother, went by his mortal name.

Zeus's less than cunning attempt at getting to know his son through Dionysus didn't last long. Once Demeter saw that he and Harry were speaking, she'd banished him, surely knowing that Dionysus, one of Zeus's favored immortals, would tell him everything. She'd sent Dionysus back to Olympus with the only message Zeus had received from her in years:

' _Don't.'_

He never sent Dionysus back.

Zeus forced himself to be true to his oath, and had not so much as looked in the direction of her forbidden forest since…

Until this morning.

Zeus knew that Voldemort would not try and reason with Demeter first. He would go directly to the object of his desire—his _son_ —and take what he wanted.

…He could have intervened.

Zeus was watching from his place in the heavens when the void in the ground opened like a black, gaping mouth. He saw the way his son fled in a panic from the chariot being ridden by the God called Death.

And for a moment, he thought to answer Harry's pleas… but he did not.

Zeus saw an opportunity, and in his great selfishness and unquenchable longing, could not pass it up. He turned away, letting his son get caught, pretending he saw nothing and burying his guilt.

And now, he waited.

Zeus sighed heavily, his head in his hands as he reclined in one of his private chambers. He was glad that his wife was elsewhere in the castle—no doubt brooding because he'd been on Earth doing exactly what she suspected him of… not that he much cared. He had long since stopped apologizing for his behavior. Hera's presence did not fill the void of his loss, it never had, and her anger did not cause him shame.

"More wine?"

Zeus looked up, and his dark mood lightened somewhat. "Please," he said. Remus poured a healthy amount into his goblet.

"How is it," Dionysus drawled, holding his own cup aloft and waiting for Remus to notice him, "that when _I_ tempt you with wine, you frequently say no, and yet you never turn down an offer from Remus?"

Zeus smirked. Dionysus was a dulcet creature in his immortal form, the coiling vines and lush, full grapes decorating his tan skin. His hair was black with the slightest tint of burgundy, like a deep, richly bodied wine. "Because you are never _not_ tempting. Besides, how can I say no to my cupbearer? I would be doing him a disservice, not allowing him to do his job."

"He makes a fair point," Remus said, attending to Dionysus's cup as well. Unlike the Gods, Remus did not have a divine form. Zeus had granted him immortality, but he looked as he did when Zeus had taken him—forever young and human. "If there were no empty cups in the heavens to fill, then perhaps Zeus would realize he had no use for me, and send me back to the mortal realm…"

"Never." Zeus lifted his cup to his lips and drank all its contents in one swallow. They both laughed at his theatrics. "Here, more work for you," he said afterwards, raising his empty glass once more.

A sharp bang of the door swinging open caused all three of them to turn.

"Zeus! _Zeus!"_

Even before he heard the shrill, nasally voice, Zeus knew who it was. Only his messenger God was given the ability to open the door and interrupt him here. Hermes had been granted this high honor with the understanding that he would only do so in the event of an emergency.

Zeus stood, setting his glass aside. Hermes was in a true panic, wings fluttering sporadically like a bird in a storm. "Hermes!" Zeus shouted, grabbing him by the shoulders so he did not collide with a wall or some furniture. "What is it?"

"She's here," he gasped. "She's here, she's—"

" _Who_ is here?"

"Demeter. Lily."

Zeus's breath caught in his throat.

_She had come._

"…Demeter?" he breathed, feigning great shock. "Here? In Olympus?"

"Oh yes, and she is _not_ happy—she broke down the gates, she threatened to rip my wings off if I didn't come and get you right away—Probably tearing apart the Great Hall right now, she was in such a rage—"

"Calm yourself," Zeus commanded, and Hermes took several long, steadying breaths. "Remus, remain here."

Without another word, Zeus left to meet her. He was finally going to see Demeter face to face after such an unfathomably long time... Vaguely, he heard Dionysus following behind him, and Hermes fluttering at his side.

He entered the Great Hall. Its enchanted ceiling showed the heavens and the constellations in all their magnificent splendor, but the stars appeared muted in her presence.

…Was it possible, for a Goddess to become more beautiful with time?

It shouldn't have been. The Gods were timeless beings; once they reached maturity, they did not age. Only something splendid or devastating could cause them to change, the way he and his brothers had changed when they'd drawn lots for the world…

And yet, as the God of the Heavens looked upon the face of the Goddess of the Harvest in her glory, he could not help but think that she had become more radiant than ever.

Her lips were like a peony, perfectly pink and plump; her hair was the color of the deepest, reddest rose in full bloom. She had eyes like the most vivid and lush summer grasses, and her skin…

Her skin was light and warm like a sunrise in June, and across it bloomed the flowers of late spring and summer. Dahlias and marigolds grazed her collarbones and swept across her shoulders, daisies and bleeding hearts curled around her arms and wrists. And lilies, of course there were lilies; he could see them coiling around her ankles and blossoming along her thighs, where the slit in her long skirt revealed just enough of her legs to hint at the perfection concealed underneath.

She was beautiful.

She was _furious._

"Where," she snarled, no concern for proper greetings of reverence to the ruling God. Her face was flushed in rage, her eyes were gleaming. The Goddess of the Harvest's divine aura whirled with a great and terrible wrath.

"… _is my son?_ "


	9. Stirrings

Her voice was so loud and venomous that Zeus was unsurprised to see other Gods and Goddesses appearing, drawn to the sounds of drama like moths to a flame. Zeus ignored them. "What are you talking about?" he said, his focus only on Demeter. Her eyes narrowed reproachfully when he moved closer to her.

"You know exactly what I am talking about!" she roared. "You have him here, I know you do—where is he?  _Where is Harry?"_

"Demeter," Zeus said calmly, reaching for her hand. It was the  _wrong_  thing to say.

"Don't call me that," she snapped, slapping his hand away. "It's  _Lily_. And I know you stole my son in order to get me to come here. I  _know_ —"

"Lily. I did not take him. I did not capture  _our_  son."

Confusion cut across her incensed expression. "…You're lying," she said after a pause.

"I am not lying. I did not take him, and he is not here. I swear it."

She was quiet for a long time, staring into his eyes, searching. Zeus stared right back, feeling he could get lost in those emerald irises and never find his way out again.

"You did not take him," she murmured, despair in her voice. He could tell that she knew it was the truth—Zeus would not have sworn so otherwise. "Then who did?  _Where_  is my son?"

She looked around at the other Immortals who had gathered in the Hall—most of whom were probably unaware that Demeter even had a son, and some of which had only heard of Demeter herself, having never met her. "My son is named Kouros," she said, speaking directly to them. "But he goes by Harry. He has lived with me in the Forbidden Forest for his entire life. He looks… He looks just like his father."

She inclined her head towards Zeus. The other Gods and Goddesses whom Demeter was unfamiliar with gasped, shocked to hear that Zeus had a child which they had not known about.

Demeter didn't seem to have patience for their theatrics. "Who among you has seen him?" she asked, her voice strained with both worry and rage. "Surely one of you knows what has happened to your fellow God?"

The Immortals glanced at each other, expressions varying from anxious to skeptical, but no one said anything.

" _No one?"_  Demeter snapped. "Not a single one of you shall speak up?"

"Is that…  _Demeter?"_

Zeus's muscles all tensed at the same moment. He knew it was only a matter of time before she made an appearance, but he had been hopeful that his wife would remain away from this commotion for a while longer.

But Hera never did act in a way that was convenient for him.

Demeter's expression slid into something painfully conflicted as she approached. The Queen of the Gods was imposing, there was no denying that—light blonde locks, ivory skin, and eyes as cold and blue as a winter sky. The only markings she had of floral divinity were those for which she had chosen her mortal name—petunias, all of which were a cold, muted violet. Flowers that were now known to the mortals as symbolic of rage and resentment, due to the stories about Zeus's wife.

How perfectly they adorned her.

It was not that Hera was not lovely—she was. She moved with a sophisticated air worthy of a Queen, she carried her head high upon a neck which was long and graceful. Her gown was pristine and white, flowing fabric made of silk so holy it glowed. She wore a crown, too; Hera always wore a golden coronet.

It was impossible to not recognize that one was staring at not only a Goddess when one looked at Hera, but the Queen of the Immortals.

And yet despite all of her finery, Hera standing next to Demeter was like a frozen lake beside a glorious waterfall.

There was no comparison.

"Sister," Demeter breathed. How long had it been, Zeus wondered, since the two had seen one another? Probably not since Demeter had abandoned the heavens, centuries ago.

"To what do we owe this rare visit?" Hera asked, not bothering with a proper greeting. The other Immortals made room for her as she descended the stairs to approach her sister. "I thought you had forsaken us. I though paradise held no allure to you, any longer."

Demeter's expression became incensed once more. "I came because my son is missing," she seethed. "And—"

"Yes, I heard. I would be surprised if half the mortal realm isn't aware that your son is missing, you were shouting so loud," Hera drawled. She stopped directly in front of Demeter, and while her sister's loveliness was unparalleled, Hera's own divine aura was cold and striking. "But your bastard son is not here."

Demeter's face turned a stark white. " _You_ ," she growled, eyes darkening as though in sudden understanding. "You, you've always been so—so  _bitter_ , about Zeus's other children—what have you done,  _what have you—"_

"I've done nothing!" Hera yelled. She then laughed mirthlessly, a cold, high sound. "You think  _I_ killed him? That I would suddenly bother, after so many years, to go and murder your illegitimate child?"

"You've been known to kill children that were not yours out of  _spite_."

"Yes, well, your bastard was born before I was married. I do not  _approve_  of his life, but I would not seek to end it. You took him and swore to never show your face here again. That was good enough for me; I didn't even need to banish you."

Zeus could hold his tongue no longer. "Silence, woman," he commanded. Hera raised her brows at him but said nothing more.

"…Has no one truly seen my son?" Demeter's rage all but vanished, replaced solely by anguish. The flowers adorning her neck and chest fell into themselves, withering with her emotions.

Zeus's gaze swept across the Immortals he ruled over. He could not be sure that any of them had not seen what happened to Harry—Artemis and Apollo were particularly observant of the mortal realm—but if they had been about to speak up, they no longer were once Zeus's eyes landed on them. The God of the heavens silenced them all with a look.

A look which Demeter did not catch. "Lily, he is not here, nor have any of us seen anything," he said. "…But I shall find him."

This time, when Zeus reached for her hand, Demeter did not force him away. "I'm so worried," she said in a choked voice. "I have never seen the forest in such a state of despair. But if you did not take him, and  _she_  did not harm him…"

Hera scoffed behind her. "Leave us, Hera," Zeus commanded. "In fact, all of you, go. Your King demands it."

The Gods and Goddesses did not dare defy a direct order, not even Hera, though her expression was petulant.

Demeter waited until she and Zeus were alone to speak again, and she turned her attention fully to him. How he wanted to have her focus always. "You will?" she said. "You will find him, Zeus?"

"I will. I swear to you I will."

Demeter nodded, but her terrified expression grew more pronounced. "What could have possibly happened to him?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, her eyes shining and wet with tears. "Where has he gone? Harry would never willingly leave me…"

"Children have an impressive ability to defy their parents at the strangest of times," Zeus said. "Calm yourself, Lily. K-Harry is an Immortal being, a  _God_.  _My_  son. I am sure that he is fine, wherever he has gone."

Zeus moved with great caution to wipe the tears from her eyes, amazed that Demeter allowed the affectionate gesture. "Please do," she murmured.

"I know exactly who to send to track him down," Zeus said. "I will have him bring our son to us, here."

" _Here?"_

"Would you rather he be returned to a forest where something potentially awful has happened? A place which may be dangerous?" he asked. "Until we know what has happened, this would not be wise."

Demeter considered this for a long moment. "Fine," she eventually agreed. "But this means nothing, Zeus. I am not rescinding my abandonment of this place. This is temporary."

"Whatever you wish."

Zeus released her hands to cup her face with his. She flinched slightly but didn't withdraw, and Zeus's heart was singing at the possibility for forgiveness. "Go wait in your old quarters. They have been untouched since you left," he said. "I will be back soon."

She spent a long time staring at his face, examining his eyes, his lips, his jaw. Zeus let her, heart racing ever faster.

"…Why could you not wait for me?"

The whispered question stung more than Zeus thought words ever could. No amount of screaming accusations had ever struck him so sharply, had ever made him feel so much pain.

"I could have loved you."

She turned and left him before he could respond.

Zeus knew that statement was meant to be hateful, but he heard otherwise in the tenor of her voice. He heard…

He shook his head and walked away from the Great Hall, moving swiftly towards the gate surrounding the fortress in the heavens. He needed to succeed, and quickly.

He left the castle through the main doors, where the billowing clouds of his holy paradise stretched out before him in all directions. Below the skies, he could see the mortal realm in all of its flawed, endless beauty.

"Hermes," Zeus called as soon as he spotted him. The short God with winged feet jumped and turned on the spot.

"I have a job for you."

Hermes hesitantly approached, bowing his head slightly. "Of course, my Lord," he said. "I, er, i-is everything…?"

He didn't seem to be able to put into words his true question. "Demeter is staying here until her son is found," Zeus said. "And I  _swore_ that he would be found."

Hermes' eyes went wide. "Really? B-but we have no idea where he is…"

"I know precisely where he is."

" _What?_  You  _do?"_

Zeus had to resist the urge to strike him. "Of course I do, I am Zeus. I am  _omniscient_."

"You just  _lied_ , then?" Hermes balked. "But why—"

"I do not need to explain my reasoning to you," Zeus seethed, his voice rising. Lightning crackled around him, barely concealed rage making his power thrum along his skin. "What you need to do is  _listen_  to me and  _obey_."

Hermes' jaw snapped shut. He nodded and said nothing more.

"Harry was captured. He was taken by Hades to the Underworld and, and the Dark Lord is holding him there. He intends to make him his consort."

Hermes' face was so stunned that Zeus nearly laughed. "He… Oh, my heavens. That… that explains a few things," he muttered, dumbstruck.

"Yes. And you are going to get him and bring him here, now."

Panic visibly gripped at Hermes very being.  _"Me?"_  he squeaked. " _Me_ , sneak into the Underworld and steal your brother's—Voldemort's—his… his  _person of interest_  and bring him here? Why  _me?_ "

"Because you are the Messenger God, and that is your job."

Hermes was shaking his head, petrified at the notion. "B-but I don't even know how to get into the Underworld! Does anyone, aside from Hades himself?"

"I do."

Zeus lowered his voice. Hermes looked exceedingly worried. "It won't be an easy journey; it's a secret entrance that he believes inaccessible… but it's not. However…"

A glint of something like mischievousness sparked in Zeus's eyes.

"You're going to need to play the part of  _Wormtail_  again."

* * *

It was dark.

Harry had his eyes closed, refusing to open them to the reality of this new, shadowy world that he now found himself in… and the God that had brought him there.

"…Why do you cry?"

Voldemort was holding him, his arms around his waist as they lay on his massive, luxurious bed. His deft fingers trailed up and down Harry's back, soothing and slow.

It felt nice.

It felt wrong.

Harry hadn't realized that he was crying, again. He still didn't open his eyes when Voldemort kissed his tears away, licking at his skin like they were made of the sweetest wine.

"Look at me."

Harry didn't want to.

He was so confused, so disoriented by what had just happened. He had never known pleasure like that, had never been aware that such blissful sensations existed…

But he felt so… hollow.

"Look at me, Harry."

Harry slowly, reluctantly, opened his eyes.

Voldemort appeared concerned, but his eyes were burning with an undeniable adoration for his captive.

_Captive._

"Why are you crying?"

The question was sterner, this time. Harry swallowed thickly before answering with a question of his own.

"…What have you done to me?"

Voldemort smirked, looking self-righteous. "I have  _awakened_  you," he purred, running his hands through Harry's hair. He leaned in closer, his lips against Harry's neck when he said, "And I will awaken you again, and again…"

It felt good.

It felt wrong.

"Stop," Harry whispered. "I don't… Please, stop."

Voldemort did, but he seemed distraught. "…Did you not enjoy it?" he asked, and his brows creased in true concern.

Harry opened his mouth but could say nothing. That was not what was plaguing him. Truthfully, he  _had_  enjoyed it. He had liked it more than anything he had ever experienced. That feeling of something building inside of him, a mounting, burning pleasure that had eventually reached its peak in something indescribable but absolutely  _marvelous_ …

Voldemort looked into his eyes, staring deeply. By the way his lips had begun to curl, it was like the Dark Lord had read Harry's thoughts as he had them.

_No._

He had just begun to kiss his throat when something vicious ignited in Harry's chest.

A sound like thunder reverberated throughout the room. A crackling of light frizzled at Harry's hands, and there was a flash—

Voldemort moved away from him so quickly it was like he'd been burned. Harry, too, had gotten to his feet, an energy coursing through him that he had never felt before.

It was gone as quickly as it had come. Harry stared down at his own hands, empty and cold, utterly perplexed. They were shaking terribly. Voldemort watched him from the other side of the bed, his face unreadable.

" _What was that?"_  he hissed.

Harry continued to look blankly at his hands, unsure of how he had done that. "I… I don't know."

A stretch of silence. Voldemort cautiously walked around the bed towards him, but when Harry backed away, he stopped.

"Leave me alone," Harry said, voice raspy. "Just… leave me, if you won't take me home."

Voldemort's tone was careful and level. "You  _are_  home, Harry. And it is a glorious kingdom. You should see it all, your—"

"Just because you've brought me here doesn't make this my home," Harry snapped. "And I don't  _want_  to see it. Just… just go away!"

He folded him arms across his chest, feeling like he was going to fall apart and not full understanding why. Voldemort stood there for a long time, watching silently.

"…Very well," he finally said, to Harry's amazement. "Stay here. Wallow in unnecessary misery. When you wish to stop denying yourself bliss and prestige… say my name, and I will return."

He crossed the room in a flash, startling Harry so much with his swiftness that he had no time to react.

"Do not make me wait long, Harry," he murmured, his mouth against Harry's ear. He bit him there afterwards, lightly, and Harry felt a rush of heat blooming beneath his skin.

"I will not wait forever."

Voldemort vanished in a swirl of shadows and darkness. Harry wrapped his arms around himself, so many feelings stirring in his chest he felt that he would shatter from the inside out because of them.

He fell onto the bed and cried.


	10. A Ghost

An entire day passed.

Harry had cried until he could cry no more, and afterwards he fell into a fitful and uneasy sleep, full of feverish dreams where he ran from shadows he could not escape.

…The sheets smelled like him.

When Harry awoke, he laid on his back on the massive bed and stared vacantly up at the ceiling. He had never felt more disoriented. He felt utterly drained, despite having just rested.

Harry knew what had happened was  _wrong_. The Dark Lord had taken him from his forest and brought him here against his will; he had burned kisses onto his unwilling lips, making his blood boil and his back arch—

Harry shuddered. He was trying not to think about it, but he just couldn't help it. His traitorous mind kept drifting  _not_  to the fact that he'd been kidnapped and that his mother and friends must be frantically worried about where he'd gone… but to how it had felt when Voldemort had first bitten his neck, when his deft fingers had trailed down his stomach to his—

_I have_ awakened _you…_

Harry's hands clenched the sheets, a feeling of unwanted heat rushing to places it shouldn't be. It was unstoppable, this feeling. His whole body was in a horrid state of yearning that he had never experienced before coming here, that he had never known before Voldemort…

_You will never_ _not_ _crave this feeling, after this… You will never_ _not_ _be plagued by lust…_

Harry let out a pitiful cry, a sound full of desperation. Would this  _lust_  never cease, now? Was he doomed to eternally crave that glorious, inexplicable peak of gratification that had spilled out of him when Voldemort had him quivering beneath him, had been moving inside of him—

Harry stood, suddenly consumed with the need to get off this bed, away from this place that smelled like something sweet and deceptively alluring. He crossed the room, and when he caught sight of his own reflection he gasped.

Harry had never truly examined himself while in his divine form.

He and his mother only transcended on the Summer Solstice, and even then, they did not sit and stare at their own reflections in pools of water like Narcissus. They danced in the sunshine and reveled in the beauty that was the Earth, sharing their holy appearances with the flowers and the trees…

He had never known just how…  _startling_  he was. Ivy markings curled over his body, bright leaves and closed buds, the imminent promise of early spring. His skin was glinting with a golden shimmer he had never seen on his mother, and while Harry had always known this was the case, had never appreciated just how lovely it was.

The gold must have been a trait he'd received from his father…

Harry closed his eyes, forcing himself to not be caught up in his own appearance. His mother had always taught him the dangers of such vanity. He exhaled slowly, and willed his mortal form to re-emerge.

Messy, black hair. Tan skin. Green eyes, but not ones which were unnaturally alight.

Better.

His tunic destroyed, Harry quickly rummaged through a wardrobe in the corner of the room and found himself some robes. They were all black, of course—he would expect nothing less from the God of Death—and though Harry wasn't thrilled about wearing Voldemort's clothing, which was all saturated with that admittedly heady scent, it was better than being nude.

Harry hesitated at the door. Had the Dark Lord locked him in? Harry wasn't sure; he hadn't said as much… Voldemort had, in fact, wanted Harry to see his  _glorious_  empire…

Harry held his breath and grabbed the handle. To his relief, the door opened with ease.

_Well, just because he's agreed to give me some space and hasn't trapped me in his bedroom doesn't mean much,_  Harry thought bitterly. He doubted that he would be able to go anywhere the Dark Lord did not want him to, that escape from this place would be impossible.

That didn't mean he wasn't going to try.

* * *

Harry was cautious.

He was good at moving quickly and gracefully, but Harry did not have much practice at being  _stealthy_. There was no reason to be in his forest; he'd had nothing to hide from, there.

This was not the case in Hell—in  _Lord Voldemort's_  realm.

The palace of the Underworld was not as dark as Harry might have imagined. While it was bleak and ominous, the castle halls were lined with sconces that were lit with magic, and there were painted portraits on the wall that Harry swore he saw  _moving_.

He tried not to look at them. He moved quickly.

Harry considered leaving through what was obviously the main entrance, but swiftly decided against it. No doubt there would be guards or something stationed outside of those doors, who would either go and tell their God that Harry was vacating the premises, or prevent him from leaving in the first place.

Which left Harry with quite a difficult obstacle if his intention was to escape. The windows were all far too high on the vaulted ceiling to reach, and Harry wasn't sure where any of the other exits may be.

Scowling, he found a staircase and went up instead of down. Maybe he could find a secret passage, or something…

"Who are  _you?_ "

Harry jumped at the sound, turning and taking a defensive stance—even though he was  _not_  a fighter, and that was definitely  _not_  the Dark Lord's voice.

He gawked at who—or what—it was. "A ghost," he said blankly.

It was. Hovering before him was one of the many undead figures that Harry had seen when he'd first been flown across the Underworld, held captive on a chariot in the Dark Lord's arms. A translucent girl, her hair in pigtails and her eyes wide and curious. A human. A mortal who had… who had passed. "You're… dead."

The concept, while obvious, was nonetheless foreign to Harry. While his friends in the forest—the nymphs and the dryads—were not immortal, strictly speaking, they did not age. They would only perish if they were caught in some tragic accident or, as Voldemort had threatened,  _murdered_.

But people, mortals… why, they died all the time, didn't they? And this was where each and every one of them wound up, in the end…

"You're  _not_ ," the girl said, and Harry supposed she had much better reasoning for being shocked by his presence than he did of hers. Her eyes darted up and down his body, in his false, mortal form, and she came to an incorrect conclusion. "What is a  _living_  boy doing in the Underworld?"

Harry decided not to inform her of his divinity. "I was kidnapped," he answered bitterly.

"By  _you-know-who?"_

"Er—sorry? Who?"

"You know…  _Him_."

"You mean V—"

"Don't say his name!" she hissed, and though she shoved his shoulder, the girl's arm passed right through him. A horrible sensation shot down his spine when it did—Harry felt like he'd been doused in cold water. "He always knows when someone says his name!"

"Okay," Harry said, trying not to shudder as he backed away from her frigid touch. "I won't. But uh, yes. I was taken by  _him_."

"Ooooh. How  _interesting!"_  Her fear transitioned into inquisitiveness so quickly that Harry was astounded. She floated a bit closer, her eyes widening even further. Harry had the horrible feeling that he would not be able to rid himself of her.

"Why are you here?" he asked suddenly.

"Because I'm  _dead_. Remember?"

"No, I meant  _here_ , here. In this palace." Harry gestured around the lavish, sinister hall. "When I first came in, I saw a lot of spirits on the other side of the water, and outside, but… I wouldn't have imagined that they'd be allowed in V—er, you-know-who's  _personal_ living space."

"Oh," she said, looking sheepish. "Well, we're not supposed to be, not technically. It's even enchanted so that spirits can't just pass through the walls and such. But I found a way in. I try to be sneaky when I'm here, though—I only come here at all to hide from that dreadful, three-headed snake."

She quivered, an involuntary reaction which Harry assumed one didn't cease to have when they were scared just because they no longer had a body. "You mean his pet?" Harry asked.

"Yes, it likes to chase us, you-know-who and his Death Eaters find it funny…"

"Death Eaters...?"

"His followers. Mortals who died that you-know-who  _liked_  enough to give bodies to, in exchange for their eternal loyalty. They help him run the Underworld. I hate them almost as much as I hate that snake." She quivered again.

Harry stared at her shimmering, untouchable form. "But surely the snake can't  _actually_  hurt you, if it catches you…?"

"Not physically, no. But I can't help but be absolutely  _terrified_  of her. think I may have died from a snake bite, or something…" Her voice trailed off, and her ghostly eyes went out of focus.

"You… don't remember how you died?"

She blinked owlishly at Harry as she came back to herself. "No. I don't. That's what happens after you've been here too long. You start to forget everything about yourself, and, eventually, you go  _on_. Past the Field of Flames, into Oblivion…"

Harry swallowed audibly. He wasn't sure what that meant, but it sounded terrifying. "And then what happens?"

"Who knows?" She shrugged, like this wasn't such a huge concern for her. "Can't be worse than being here, though, can it? My name is Myrtle, by the way. I still remember  _that_."

"I'm Harry. Nice to meet you," he responded. She smiled, revealing translucent, slightly crooked teeth. "So. Myrtle. How  _did_  you find a way in here?"

She glanced up and down the hall quickly before saying, in a quiet voice, "Through the  _pipes_."

"Can you show me?" Harry asked breathlessly. "Could I maybe use them to escape?"

Her smile broadened, almost wickedly. "I can," she said, already floating away and motioning for Harry to go with her. Harry got the feeling that she was happy to help him—happy to have a friend in this dreary place. "And you could."

Harry grinned victoriously and followed the ghost.


End file.
